Time and Again
by D3adlyG33k'sMistress409
Summary: A story of one young woman's struggle to grow up…and grow wiser. ExC naturally. Mind the 'M' warning if you please.
1. A Hell of Heaven

Summary: A story of one young woman's struggle to grow up…and grow wiser. ExC naturally. HEA guaranteed. Mind the 'M' warning if you please.

Rating: 'M' for a Reason.

Disclaimer: I own it. All Rights Reserved.

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**Time & Again**

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Part I: A Hell of Heaven_  
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Christine Daae had made a big mistake.

She had realized it the moment she left through the grate by the Rue Scribe; Raoul holding her tight as the Persian man led them aboveground.

She could hear the tearing, crashing sounds of the mob; the frenzy of their flight below. She tried to slow her pace, dig in her heels; Raoul ushered her onward. "Come on! Christine, Come on. You never know if the monster might have changed his mind."

She was out of breath and very much overwrought. "Raoul. Please, Raoul. We must stop."

The Persian man ushered them onward to the grated entrance and pushed a series of knotches in the stone too small for Christine to see. "Out of the question, Mademoiselle. Come Viscount de Chagny. This way. This will lead us to the Rue Scribe where your carriage awaits. Come the both of you, and never think to come back to this place again." The Persian man gave her a level look, "No matter what _he_ made you promise, Madamoiselle!" And with those parting words, Raoul all but shoved her out the grate.

It closed with a clang of finality.

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_Three Weeks Later_

_**Erik is Dead.**_

She stared at the newspaper emotionlessly, those three small words she refused to believe.

_**Erik is Dead. **_

The words rang with a clang of finality in her skull.

_**Erik is Dead. **_

"Here, now Christine. What has you looking so glum?" Christine felt the newspaper leave her numb fingers. "The obituaries? A little heavy for Sunday morning reading, don't you think?"

She watched as Raoul folded the paper and placed it beside his morning juice. "Here now. I was thinking you and I could go for a stroll along the Seine. Maybe a picnic in the park? What do you say?"

"I—I really don't…that is to say…" she sighed. "Raoul." Christine took a deep breath, and gathered her courage around her like a cloak to face her fiancé. "I must return to the opera house."

The affable smile slid from his face. "Out of the question, Christine."

She watched as he took a sip of his juice and unfolding the paper once more, proceeded to read.

She tried a different tack, hoping to appeal to his sense of honor. "Please, Raoul. I left everything in such a shambles when I fled. That place was my home for four years. Four years, Raoul! And Madam Giry and Meg were like family to me. I haven't even written to them. Please!"

She watched as he sat the paper down very deliberately, and gave her a level stare. "I don't see why? We have plenty of stationary here at the Chateau that is at your disposal." He turned his attention to the paper and shook it out. "You may invite Madam Giry and her daughter to stay here if you like. They are more than welcome and there is more than enough room."

Christine flattened her buttered croissant with the tines of her fork, losing herself in thought. After a moment, the paper rattled, and a throat cleared. She looked up to see that she had Raoul's complete attention, and for the first time, she noticed how glacially blue his eyes could become. He met her stare as he quietly stated, "For the last time, Christine. You are never going back there. End of discussion."

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"Meg, I'm so glad you and Madam could come! Tell me, how long can you stay?"

Christine watched as her friend unpacked what meager belongings she had in the second best guestroom of the de Chagny Chateau. The blond girl grunted as she fiddled with the stubborn latch on her trunk. "Indefinitely, I suppose." she shrugged. "The dormitories and our apartments above were destroyed during the fire. We were living—squatting really— in the undamaged section of the Populaire until we received your invitation inviting us here."

Christine looked instantly contrite. "Oh, Meg! I'm so sorry!" The blond girl paused in her unpacking and sat beside her. "Don't be. What have you to be sorry for? It wasn't your fault the Populaire burned."

"Oh, but—"

"Hush." Meg put her arms around her, "It's not your fault, Christine. None of it!" She nodded, and Meg sighed. "One day, Christine Daae, you're going to have to hear it _and_ believe it, but obviously today is not that day." Meg rose. "Now come over here and help me with my trunk. Only you could get the blasted thing to open up anyway. I should have given it to you years ago."

Taking off her glove, Christine rose and followed, going over to the ancient trunk and feeling the latch with her fingers. She closed her eyes. "Nonsense. It just requires… a bit …of attention." She bit her lip. "And the right…pressure. There!" The rusty latch gave way with a grate. "See? It opened right up."

She looked up at her friend triumphant, and Meg looked back at her deadpan. "I loosened it for you."

Christine's mouth twitched. "Uh-huh. Sure you did. Come on. Hurry up and unpack. Luncheon will be in an hour."

Meg turned to comply but stopped short, "Wait! Before I forget! This was in your dressing room at the Populair." She watched as Meg took out a well-bundled, if bulky, package. Christine took it from her and was immediately surprised by the weight. Her friend shrugged. "It looked valuable so I took it; I didn't want it to be stolen." She nodded her thanks and saw the weighty object safely to her room, putting it out of her mind upon setting it down.

A thousand other concerns intruding upon her as she wrestled with the most crucial of decisions: _what to wear?_

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"Is it not enough, Raoul, that I have to put up with _It_ sharing our home and mingling with us at dinner? Is it not enough, Raoul, that I am still freshly immersed in grief over the loss of our dear, departed Phillipe and have to be reminded of his death every time I see you seated at the head of the table sitting opposite _It_?" Viscountess Joanna de Chagny held the pristine white handkerchief up to her bone-dry, china-blue eyes and sniffed delicately. "And now _It_ has brought _It's_ friends to stay here as well. This cannot be borne!"

Christine watched from her position just outside the door of Raoul's study as the two siblings conversed. It was just after luncheon, and Christine had wanted to see if Raoul would agree to taking them on an afternoon excursion through the was, until she heard the two of them talking.

"For the last time, Joanna, this is my future wife you are talking about, and you will address her with respect!" Christine watched as Raoul put down the mound of papers he was studying and finally looked at his sister.

The death of his older brother had left the normally carefree young man disheartened, and the added weight of titled responsibility lent him a severe and sober personage. His countenance had seemingly matured overnight from the boy she had known to that of the man he was to become.

His sister raised her painted Patrician nose in stubborn defiance. "Oh no I won't! Not until you marry the little tart will I deign to give _It_ the time of day. And even then… only grudgingly."

Christine expected Raoul to come once more to her defense, but to her shocked dismay, his mouth twitched, and a smile formed. "Oh, do come here Kitten."

She watched dumbfounded, as sauntering, his sister made her way over to him and perched delicately on lip of his desk. Christine lost her view of Raoul, but she heard whispering and then quiet laughter from the pair.

Why the two of them..they looked… …it was almost as if—

Holding her breath, Christine backed silently away, but stumbled into the personage of Madam Giry, who had, unbeknownst to her, followed along.

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_**A/N**_: The authoress would dearly love to know what you think, dear reader…

_**DGM**_


	2. Hell and Back Again

Part II: Hell and Back Again

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The good Madam wore a severe expression on her already severe countenance as she led Christine quietly away and back to her own quarters.

She rang for tea and then sat them both down in two wingback chairs facing one another. Christine could not believe what she had just witnessed. She just couldn't!

She watched, dumbfounded, as the older woman took a restorative sip of tea and then sat back and closed her eyes.

At length, she sighed. "You know my grand-mère had a saying long ago, Christine." She paused, and Christine shook herself and sat up straighter, forcing herself away from her thoughts of what she saw to that of Madam Giry before her. Madam Giry nodded her approval, and continued, "It went something like this: _Peep ye not into a peephole lest ye be vexed_."

Christine blanched and closed her eyes, overcome by the hurt, the betrayal she was feeling. She had expected sympathy. She had expected outrage on her behalf. She never could have imagined calm acceptance coming from Madam. Never!

Madam Giry continued on unmoved, "You have good things here, Mademoiselle Daae."

Christine opened her eyes and looked at her surrogate mother in disbelief.

"Oh, yes. It is true." The former ballet mistress nodded and took another restorative sip of tea. "A wealthy suitor. A more than opulent roof over your head. Stunning garments to clothe and protect you. A titled gentleman to see to you and your future children's every need." She ticked off each point on her long, elegant fingers.

"And you also have the discretion necessary to look the other way if—"

Christine choked, opening her mouth to protest, but Madam held up her hands silencing her.

"—_If_ untoward occurrences should arise. Now you listen. The _Countess de Chagny_ will have much power over her household should untoward occurrences happen. The _Countess_ could see to it that the Viscountess de Chagny never returns to Chateau de Chagny ever again. The _Countess_ could make certain that the Viscountess' life is hell on Earth, Christine, should the _Countess_ choose to do so."

And Christine watched as Madam Giry smiled, a malevolent gleam filling her eye. And she gulped, taken aback by the older woman's ruthlessness, her cunning.

The good Madam only shrugged airily and replied, "That would, after all, be the behavior expected of a Countess."

Christine swallowed thickly, her throat suddenly parched. Madam Giry fixed her a fresh cup of tea, and she sipped, absorbing all of Madam's implications. At length, she stated uncertainly, "But what of love, Madam? What of that?"

The older woman snorted into her tea cup and sat it down with a clatter. "Love? What do you know of love, Christine? Better still, what do you know of the world outside the Opera house doors?" The older woman shook her head, and for a moment, Christine thought she was going to grab her cane and thump it as she used to do with the Rats when they were misbehaving.

However, Christine was again shocked by the venom lacing her next words, "Let me tell you of love, little girl. Love will get you an unwanted pregnancy. Love will get you a maligned reputation and no choice at all but to leave your home and perform on a stage for a living in order to avoid prostitution to survive. Love is the stuff of little girl's daydreams and every parents' worst nightmare. Love is what will get you killed."

Christine gulped suddenly feeling ill.

"Oh yes. It is true. We are women. We have few choices in the world. But I had hoped that with the Opera and _his_ tutelage that you and Marguerite would…" Madam Giry seemed to turn in on herself. And it was a few moments before the older woman shrugged, "—but now it is of no matter. And never will it be. Go and marry your Count de Chagny, Christine. You will have all the happily ever after you can stand, believe me."

Suddenly the older woman looked very tired, and Christine was dismayed to see her normally staunch posture droop just the slightest bit.

Knowing a dismissal when she heard one, Christine quietly rose and exited the room.

As she left, she thought she heard the Madam mutter, "The alternative is not nearly so pleasant. Believe me, child."

Making her excuses, Christine notified the maid that she was indisposed and as such did not want to be disturbed.

She had much to think on.

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Closing her chamber door and locking it tight, she leaned against the hard wood and let the cool surface diffuse her ever-rising anger; her pain of betrayal.

Opening her eyes, she caught sight of the cloth-wrapped parcel that Meg had rescued from her old dressing room.

Forgetting for a moment the separate causes of her distress, Christine walked to the parcel and with a mixture wariness and anticipation, began to unwrap it.

The cloth fell away, and she drew back with a gasp.

Before her was the most finely wrought glass mirror box she had ever seen. Her reflection reflected myriad upon its mosaic surface; each tile precise in placement so that if she aligned it just right, her face would appear normal, undistorted. However, any other configuration would show her as a misaligned mess, her familiar features distorted almost beyond recognition.

The box held creases but no seams, and Christine knew that it was as much a puzzle as it was a prize.

But who could have…?

She snorted thinking what a ridiculous question.

Who, indeed?

Only one person (or should she say _ghost_) would have left her something so intricate, something so exquisite…something to remember him by.

Gathering the ring she now wore on a chain around her neck (the irony did not escape her) she felt herself tearing up again for the circumstances surrounding her flight from the opera house. _His ring._ She still had it, kept it close to her still even as another, one more opulent, graced her finger. _His ring_. Her talisman when the Chateau became unbearable and the thoughts of a world outside its doors were her only succor. _His ring_. The only thing she had of which to remember him by.

Until now.

With renewed curiosity and a keen sense of anticipation, Christine examined the mirrored box thoroughly looking for clues as to its entry. Knowing her Angel as she did, it would have to be something secret, something unexpected. She pressed every out of the way nook and cranny her hands ran across. And when that didn't work, she tried combinations of the movements.

Still she was stymied. A maid scratched on the door, and Christine didn't bother to answer, absorbed as she was in the puzzle of the box.

The scratching went away.

More scratching came what seemed only a few minutes later, and she ignored it still, huffing in frustration when the latest round of combinations refused to yield so much as a click to her touch. It was painfully obvious she didn't know her Angel at all. If she had, then she would have been able to open the box. As it was, the box stymied her…just as her Angel had stymied her.

Angel…Phantom…man.

A shattered and lonely, broken monster of a man…that had loved her.

_Her_.

Poor, insignificant Christine Daae.

He had loved her voice before he ever loved her.

And she…she had wanted so very badly to believe in fairy tales, in romance, and in myth…in _God_. She had wanted to believe. She had been raised to believe.

She had been a fool.

Looking at her reflection once more in the glass, she examined and then distorted it before making it whole once more and repeating the process. The glass, she felt, was like her life. She was being shattered and remade over and over again. First a talented daughter—shatter.

Then a talentless ballet rat—shatter.

A rising Opera Diva—shatter.

The fiancé to Count Raoul de Chagny— here she paused and truly examined the face looking back at her. No imperfection could she find. The mirror seemed magic. Usually, she could look in a mirror and see ten things before breakfast that she would like to change about herself.

Not so here.

In looking through his mirrored box, Christine saw herself just as he must have seen her.

Perfect. Flawless. Beautiful.

Reaching with a trembling hand, she touched her perfect reflection. And with a surprised inhalation, she heard the springed mechanism click into place and then the top of the box was winding open to reveal a shallow bottom with a letter inside.

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**A/N**: The authoress would love to know what you think, dear reader. Please review.

_**DGM**_


	3. Hell in a Handbasket

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_**A/N:**_ Your authoress spoils you with updates, please pamper her with a review, won't you? ;D

_**DGM**_

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Part III— Hell in a Handbasket

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She started to the sound of gentle knocking on the door.

"Christine? Are you alright, dearest?"

Her eyes grew round as she looked at the clock on the mantle. It was well past midnight, burgeoning on early morning. Covering the box back in its cloth wrappings, she rose from her stooped position, only now feeling the aches and pains that went with sitting in one spot for far too long.

"It grows late and your light is still on. Can you hear me, little Lotte?"

Even though she was still in her day dress, Christine threw on her wrapper and went to the door. She opened it incrementally.

"Yes, Raoul. I am fine. You, see?" Smiling weakly, she fully opened the door and presented herself to his scrutiny.

He took this for invitation and walked into her room, seating himself at the vanity, the very space where the box resided. It all at once struck her that she did not _want_ him knowing about the box. She prayed that he wouldn't notice it for she couldn't lie worth a damn, and he would surely take the box away if he knew where it was from…_or from whom_.

"You weren't at dinner." He continued to study her, his expression considerate if disproving. "Are you ailing, Christine? Do we need to call Doctor Jervaux?"

"No—No! I'm fine, Raoul. Just—just feeling a bit off lately."

He rose from her vanity stool and came before her.

Christine closed her eyes to the touch of his hand on her cheek. "I know you have been. That's why I insisted you invite Madam Giry and her daughter to stay. I had hoped—well, I was hoping that they would help cheer you up from the doldrums that seemed to weigh so heavily upon your mind of late." He hugged her close, and for a moment, Christine allowed herself to feel comfort, be comforted by his touch.

But then, a smell—a familiar, and yet, unfamiliar smell intruded on her awareness.

_Perfume_.

A woman's perfume.

And not just any woman but Raoul's sister!

Only just stopping herself from jerking away, Christine looked up and met his crystalline blue gaze. His mouth was soft, but his next words were harsh, abrasive in their clarity, "Well, if we needn't call a doctor, then I expect your presence at breakfast tomorrow morning. Madam Giry and her daughter are your guests, Christine. And it is perfectly inhospitable to ask them to entertain themselves while you sit up here alone daydreaming." He smiled disarmingly to lessen the harshness of his words. "Come, little Lotte, let her mind wonder indeed." and he tweaked her nose, his eyes crinkling at the corners at his little jest.

Outwardly, Christine smiled, even though inside she felt bits of nameless anger rekindle and spark. She was more than her father's childhood fairytale dammit! She had more to offer than that!

"And really, Christine, you need to make more of an effort to be nicer to Joanna. Just today, she told me that you have yet to accept her invitation for a shopping excursion on the nine for the day after tomorrow. It was kind of her to offer, don't you think?" He wrapped his arms around her shoulders, drawing her in and tucking her under his chin.

She grit her teeth, not daring to voice what she thought of his sister's 'kind' offer.

"You could learn a lot from her, you know? What it truly means to be a Countess. She has so very much she could teach you if just list—"

"Raoul!" Christine broke in, her tone somewhat desperate. She took a centering breath, "Raoul." She stated more calmly with a forced smile. "It—it grows quite late, and as you've stated, I must be up early on the morrow." She took his hand and led him to her door. He stopped just inside the entrance, and turning back, he once again cupped her cheek.

"Think about what I've said Christine. I want you and Joanna to be friends. Perhaps if you tried a bit harder…" He smiled, brushing his thumb across her cheek. She studied him carefully, as if seeing him for the first time.

The boy she had known was gone. And what remained was a wealthy, privileged man in his prime who was treating his fiancé as he would a servant.

He kissed her cheek gently, "Well, g'nite Little Lotte. Let your mind wander in dreams, hmm? After all, you're looking a little pale and drawn. And dark circles are beginning to form under your eyes." His tone was conciliatory, scandalized. He smiled charmingly, "And we don't want those getting any darker, now do we?" He patted her cheek one last time, and then finally turned and left her.

Christine shut the door in relief.

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Immediately, she returned to the box and the letter.

A letter. A letter from _him_ to her.

_**Christine**_. Her name written in blood red ink in his spiky, childish scrawl.

A letter that still smelled of the underground cellars. Of the lake house, and his smoky fireplace, and nights spent immersed in song. Nights when she could forget she was human, forget she was anything at all. Nights when she lived _in the music_.

She closed her eyes, inhaling the precious scent; all of the memories, both painful and sweet coming back to her in a rush.

She looked at the back. It was sealed with his customary insignia of a Death's head in blood red wax. And yet, this did not frighten her as it would have surely a month ago. It did little to comfort but much to remind. And she found the reminiscing to be more of a relief than the fright she felt at seeing such a symbol in such a way. She reached to open it but stopped short.

She looked down.

No. This was no way to honor his last letter. No way to honor him. Not in the clothes of a future countess.

Suddenly feeling confined, Christine began ripping and tearing through her buttons and seams, shedding layers of cloth in record time. The most frustrating were her pearl-button shoes, and those did indeed take much time to get off as she had to spend time slipping each cloth-covered button out manually from its eye, ...and the shoes went up mid-calf ...and she had to do so without her maid Claudette's slip tool!

Her fingers shook, she was so impatient to be freed but finally, FINALLY! she liberated the last button until she was down to just her corset and chemise. And looking down, she shed them as well until only her two rings remained: one on a chain worn around her neck, the other a heavy weight on her finger.

Without hesitation, she slipped the ring on her finger off and placed it in her bedside drawer for safe-keeping.

Clutching the ring between her fingers like a life-line, she broke the seal.

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_Dearest Christine,_

_If you are reading this, then that means Erik has failed. And where Erik has failed, you have succeeded._

_Christine, Erik has tried for so long, worked so hard to prove his love and devotion to you. He deceived you. Yes, this is true. But Christine, what Erik did, he did in love. For you see, you taught Erik the meaning of faith and love._

_And Erik._

_He taught you to sing._

_Erik wanted choices for the lonely little girl with the extraordinary Voice and unwavering faith and innocence. Erik wanted her to have a decision in deciding her destiny. This was the entire reason Erik tutored, molded and nurtured her. And for this reason, that little girl worked so hard, sacrificed so much to perfect her art._

_And so, now choices you do have Christine._

_Now that you are free from Erik, and perhaps had time to think of your circumstances, you may yet still choose to stay with your young man, marry, and raise his perfect children. You will live the life of a Countess, your every material need assuaged... but your soul... Erik knows this will be unnourished._

_Or…_

_Or you can live the life you were born to live, my dear._

_The life of a world filled with song._

_This is the harder road. And Erik laments he will not be there to see you through it to become all of what you are destined to become. But you were born for this life, Christine, and it would be a crime to throw it away._

_Erik is sorry, sorrier than he can say that he deceived you. He is sorry that he hurt and betrayed you, and even more, that he forced you into the arms of one who will seek to confine your creativity and cage your soul. _

_Whereas Erik, he would have liked to see it soar free._

_However, Erik still wants the girl, a young woman now, to be happy in whatever she chooses._

_You are free, Christine. Free to choose which road you will take. There is no grasshopper or scorpion this time, my dear. Your choice is of your own free will._

_If you choose to stay with your young man, then you may keep this box as a token of my esteem and best wishes. Fill it with mementos of a life well-lived and a love well-savored. Fill it with happy times, Christine, for you and Erik have seen far too many sad._

_However, if you choose to return to the stage, return once more with this box in tow to the underground house by the lake. There, further instructions await you even if Erik does not._

_Whatever you choose to do, know that Erik will never love you any less for it._

_He is yours. _

_Eternally,_

_Erik_

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Her hands shaking, Christine carefully laid down the fine parchment before she could crease it. She would not cry! She would. not…cry. Damn him! What purpose did giving her this box serve? She was going to marry Raoul, wasn't she? Was she?

_Choices. _

He said he had given her choices.

And how easy it had been to lose sight of that after all that had happened!

She rose from the vanity only belatedly realizing she was in the altogether save for his ring. Christine studied herself in the mirror. A thousand and one things leaping to her mind that she would like to change about herself— And Raoul had mentioned how tired she looked, how pale and drawn.

But then she looked in _his_ mirror. His magical, perfect mirror that showed no imperfections.

And instantly her mind was made up.

Forgoing sleep as a lost cause, Christine began to plan.

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"Oh but I am so happy you've decided to have luncheon and a day of shopping out with me after all! Oh, look! There's Tessa and Dominique. Really, you must meet them! Girls! Yoo hoo! Look who we have here?"

Christine was propelled along by the Viscountess' steely grip. She tried to break free, but the Viscountess was stronger.

"Oh, girls! I'm so glad to have _just_ _happened by you_. May I present Raoul's charming fiancé Christine Daae, formerly of the Opera Populaire."

Both of the women instantly took a step back. They looked at her like she was some foreign thing, some sticky substance beneath their shoes. "A pleasure, I'm sure." The woman's eyes said anything but. The other, an exact copy of the first save for a day dress in mint instead of butter cream just nodded stiltedly and turning her back on Christine, quite excluded her from their small group of three.

A cut direct.

The three of them began talking in rapid French too quite for Christine to hear. She resolved then and there to put her plan of escape into action, but just as she opened her mouth, she felt the Viscountess' tight grip once more steel around her wrist. "Come, pet, we are going to dine at Dimitri's. You have eaten at Dimitri's before have you not?"

Christine gulped, feeling decidedly wrong-footed . "uh-hmm, no. As of yet, I've not had the pleasure."

The Viscountess tittered knowingly, "See girls, what did I say? Cit." She thought she heard her mutter.

Christine's eyes narrowed to slits as she made retrieve her hand from the Viscountess' hold.

Again, she drew breath to make her excuses and leave, but the Viscountess sighed, sounding put-upon, "Well, come. We shall simply have to introduce you. One cannot be considered one of the Demimonde and never have dined at Dimitri's."

Immediately the three turned and began to stroll, once again whispering in rapid French too quiet for Christine to hear.

She rolled her eyes beneath the brim of her elegant walking hat and reluctantly followed.

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"…And then we spent an entire half-hour perusing fashion plates at Madam _Cheveaux_. But really, Madam was too gracious by half letting us in… …without an appointment."

The other two looked scandalized. Christine's focus remained fixed on her strawberry torte as she tried to block out their insipid conversation.

"—but no appointment? How on Earth did you—?"

She saw the Viscountess hold up her jewel-bedecked hand gesturing to Christine.

"She just strolled in."

"Non!" The other two looked scandalized.

And it was all Christine could do to not roll her eyes at their over-done behavior. They would have done really well in theater.

"Oui!" The Viscountess nodded. "I had told her I would have _liked_ to shop there, and she just walked through the door without even a by-your-leave!"

The other two, Christine had trouble telling them apart, looked at her in laughter and disgust respectively. She shrugged, and took another delicate bite of torte, but wished she hadn't when Buttercream chimed in, "Oh, really mademoiselle, should you be eating that, you think, with your impending nuptials so soon?" Buttercream smiled cattily as she sipped her café au lait. She stated sweetly to the others, "I know when _I_ wed, I won't be eating a thing for at least a month beforehand."

Used to dealing with this kind of snipping from the ballet rats, Christine raised a solitary brow and deliberately cut off a bigger bite than necessary and plopped it into her mouth. It was all she could do to refrain from making smacking noises.

"Oh, Tessa! You needn't worry yourself on _that_ score," Mint answered, "You've always had a perfect shape, whereas _some_ of us here could certainly stand to forego dessert." The three of them looked pointedly at Christine, and again, she raised a solitary brow.

Taking a sip of tea, she cleared her throat delicately, "Yes, I do agree. You and the Viscountess could certainly stand to cut back on the sweets. I hear they are horrible for the complexion, but then, I've never had any trouble on _that_ score." Christine smiled sweetly, and began a fascinated study of Mint's less than pristine complexion that not even makeup could conceal while taking yet another monstrous bite of torte.

"Well I never—Ladies! I must visit the powder room."

"Yes, I as well."

"Here too!"

Mint rose abruptly as did Buttercream and the Viscountess. And quite suddenly, Christine was thankfully alone. She really needed to remember this trick! Even if she was alone for a few moments only, she counted herself blessed!

Deliberately, she finished her dessert and then ordered more tea, dearly wishing it contained something much stronger.

Surreptitiously, she looked around, the eyes of many were upon her. She was the object of much scrutiny and curiosity in this high-fashioned place where everyone knew everyone and everything that went on in each other's little lives. She was not one of _them_; she would never be accepted as such.

And finishing her tea with a salute, she couldn't help but feel grateful about that as well.

If this was what it took to be a part of the demimonde: boring lunches with even more boring people, well then, they could keep it for all she cared!

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As she waited for the _ladies_ (and she used the term loosely) to return, she thought of her plan. It wasn't much of one, admittedly, but it was a plan. The mirror-box was small but heavy, and she had been carrying it concealed in her reticule tucked away deep in the folds of her dress.

She was waiting only for the right opportunity, the right opening to return to his underground house. And with every minute that passed spent waiting, her hopes of returning today diminished further.

She thought back on her plan.

She had wanted to break away from the Viscountess earlier, plead a headache or some other trifle and then beg to return. Naturally, she would have insisted on not ruining the Viscountess' good day, and she would have insisted she kept the family carriage.

Christine, meanwhile, would hire a hackney to take her back to the Populaire and to whatever fate Erik had in store for her there.

She just hadn't been quite quick enough to implement it, and now, as she studied the lengthening shadows on the fussily parqueted floor, it looked like she never would, at least not today.

"Excuse me, Mademoiselle, but are you finished?" Christine looked up from her reverie to find the maître d' of the restaurant staring his nose down at her. We are closing, and you have yet to settle your tab."

Christine looked around. Other than a couple being loosely chaperoned by a dosing older woman, she was the only other person sitting at table in the well-appointed room. She began to blush. How she loathed her habit of losing time!

She moistened her suddenly dry lips, "The _ladies_—the other three I was with…where are they?"

If anything the stuffy maître d' looked even more put out by having to answer her, "They left ages ago. Really, Mademoiselle. This establishment is closing. _You_ need to leave."

Christine closed her eyes in mortification. "h-How much is it? The tab." The stuffy little man presented the bill, and Christine paled. It would take all of her paltry saving from the opera to be able to pay the exorbitant fare with only a few sous to see her safely back to Raoul's home... and that was if she walked most of the way.

The Viscountess had insisted Christine take no money from Raoul, and Raoul had agreed, citing that all expenses would be billed to his account and clamoring that as a future Countess, she should get used to paying with the credit of his good name.

"I—I don't suppose you could have the bill sent to my fiancé, the Count de Chagny?"

The waiter looked pointedly at Christine's bare left hand, and Christine blanched. She had forgotten to put the blasted ring back on her finger!

"Non, Mademoiselle. We do not _do_ credit." _not for your kind _was the implication.

"I—I see. Well…" Reluctantly, Christine began counting out the last of her savings from the Populaire to the demanding little man.

He stood with his palm open, staring daggers at her.

Christine had never felt such utter humiliation!

Finally, the bill was met and the condescending maître d' turned his back on her and left.

Her reticule much lighter than it was, Christine left the restaurant, and with no passing regret, resolved that now was her chance!

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Blind faith.

Blind faith, a spotty memory, and raw determination were all she had as she groped her way down through the bowels of the derelict opera house. The half-burnt building was devoid of any other human life for which she was thankful.

Going back to her abandoned dressing room, she picked through the piles of leavings and discardings the mob had left until she found her spare box of matches.

Her dressing room was a sad reminder of that night.

Her costumes trampled, her room ransacked to look for any clue of the Phantom's existence. All she had kept of him had been his roses that were always tied with black ribbon. She had dried them in a vase. And now...now the vase was smashed, the roses crunched and trampled underfoot.

And Christine still needed light.

Remembering what Meg had said about the dormitories and apartments perishing from the flames, Christine made her way to the kitchens where she knew spare lamps and lamp oil were kept.

The fire hadn't quite reached this far, and the room was somewhat normal-looking. In fact, if she blocked out the smell of char and decay, she could almost imagine it being whole. Save for the fact that she was the only one currently inhabiting it.

With that depressing thought to keep her company, Christine found and lit the lamp, returning once more to her dressing room.

She bit her lip.

Her Angel…the Phantom… …Erik.

Yes, Erik…had always had the door opened for her when she passed through it. He had always distracted her with the unearthly sound of his Voice so that she never paid attention to how she was journeying, _or with whom_. She was cursing her gullibility soundly now.

For try as she might, she could not get the mirrored passage to work properly.

Christine closed her eyes and imagined it was just like Meg's trunk. The right pressure….the right leverage… the right spot. Ah, …there! The secret door swung free on silent hinges and Christine opened her eyes to see a gaping chasm of black awaiting her.

No Angel to escort her…No Phantom to guide her…No Erik to help see this through.

"Oh! Now what do I do?" Christine's courage deserted her in an instant as she studied the unrelieved darkness. Surely, he must have known how terrifying this would be for her to do alone? Surely he must have planned for it?

Digging deep into the folds of her dress, she produced her reticule and then the mirrored box. Aligning it just right, it opened as before. But where she had put his last letter for safekeeping was now changed, and a different letter, in addition to a silver key, presented itself.

The fine hairs on the back of Christine's neck stood on end.

She looked at the letter. It had _**Christine**_ emboldened on the front in his childish script just as the other had and the death's head seal unbroken on the back.

She gulped.

Carefully setting down the lamp with trembling hands, Christine broke the seal and read:

_Dearest Christine,_

_Erik knew you would not be able to leave that damnable curiosity of yours unassuaged! _

_Know that as Erik writes this, he is not rebuking but teasing you, my dear. You have since been forgiven for removing Erik's mask all those months ago. _

_And truthfully, if there is fault, it lies with Erik himself for he should have anticipated its happening, and he should have planned accordingly. _

_But you, Christine, know the expression 'hindsight is twenty-twenty', and Erik trusts he need not recall in writing how incredibly disastrous that night, and all the others that followed it went._

_Yet now you are here amongst the ruin of what was once Sweet Music's Throne. And how we worshiped, Christine! How we supped and dined on all that was beautiful, fanciful, and light found in such darkness. _

_Erik is asking that you do so again._

_Your music will draw you to Erik's former home…that is if you allow it to. _

_Close your eyes, La Daae. Forgo the lamp you found and trust blindly once more that you shall be led safely; for nothing could harm the Angel of Music on her pilgrimage to visit the heart of Sweet Music's Throne once more. _

_Sing. _

_Sing Christine. Scales if you must. Dirges if you have a care to. Psalms if you feel the need. Sing whatever moves you, and the key will lead you safely to the heart of Sweet Music's Throne._

_Eternally yours,_

_Erik_

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.

.

Clutching the key and once more replacing the letter in the mirrored box and then the mirrored box in her reticule for safekeeping, Christine rose from her crouched position and walked towards the entrance of the tunnel.

_Sing. _

He was asking her to again trust blindly in him…in the magic of him… and sing. Trust on faith…blind faith…the faith of days gone by, of her childhood, and in all of what seemed innocent and pure that was now lost.

He wanted her to do this thing.

Anger warred with fear. Fear won out.

No. She couldn't do it. What was she doing anyway?

She was in the burnt-out remains of the opera house, about to journey blindly to the depths of what she had deemed hell not a scant number of weeks ago. And all without even the reassuring presence of another to accompany her—never mind that the other's presence tended to instill fear as much as comfort.

She should go back. Back to Raoul. Back to her safe life as the future Countess de Chagny. Back to the tedious minutia of planning her extravagant, cold, and much too impersonal wedding.

But then she remembered the little comments Raoul had made to undermine her, all unintentional she was sure, but hurtful all the same. And she remembered his sister's catty behavior earlier today. And saw herself having to withstand a lifetime of such treatment from both her and him...

_...La Daae._

Erik had called her that.

La Daae she was, and La Daae she would become again.

With this thought in mind, Christine closed her eyes once more and began to sing.

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.

.

The key vibrated in her hand.

Startled, she stopped and opened her eyes, looking down. It was an innocuous silver key…nothing special about it at all…but… she sang another few bars, and the key grew warm and began vibrating once more in her hand.

Drawing a deep breath, she sang the loudest, longest note she could reach in her more than considerable vocal range. Her hand shot out in front of her, pulling her stumbling along with it into the tunneled entrance.

She paused, falling silent, and the key once more grew cold and ordinary in her palm.

Magic.

There had to be some explanation for this; she now knew there always was. Magic did not exist. And yet…

Swallowing to moisten her suddenly tense throat, Christine discarded her first song choice of a requiem in favor of one of her father's story-songs about the Angel of Spring and her travails.

Loosely based on the Greek Myth of Persephone, the song enacted the key and Christine followed the pull of it in her hand; this time keeping her eyes wide open even if her mind was focused on her song.

Soon the path grew darker and harder to see.

And after a while, Christine realized it was easier to just close her eyes, easier to be led by the warm metal pulsing through her fingertips than to stumble blindly with her useless eyes.

And so, she gave Erik his departing wish and trusted in blind faith that she would arrive unharmed.

When her father's song was complete, she seamlessly moved on to another, this of her Ange—_of Erik's_ composition. One he had written to sing to her long ago when she was still frightened and grieving over the loss of her father; one that he whispered to her over and over to calm her fears when she was supposed to be sleeping in the dormitories with the other ballet rats but couldn't sleep for fear of dying; one that never ceased to instill comfort and peace.

And after this too ended, she sang another, and then another. Yet halfway through the last song, she bumped quite forcefully into a very solid oak door.

Instantly her song cut off, and the key grew cold in her palm. She felt the knob; it was locked.

Praying that she was correct, Christine fitted the silver key into the lock and turned the knob.

Silently, the door opened, and light flared illuminating the Phantom's lair.

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.

Memories flared and her already string-taut nerves snapped when she heard music coming from within.

Sweet Jesu! He was still here, he was still alive!

She bit her lip not knowing how exactly she felt about that, about him once more leading her down the primrose path.

And yet…

The music continued to play; it was a requiem—_his requiem_.

Christine walked slowly to the source of the music. So slowly, dread warring with the anticipation of meeting him once more filling her every step.

Finally she turned the corner, but stopped short at what she saw.

The organ was playing itself! His pipe organ was _playing itself_! She looked around the trashed and abandoned room. The mob had not been kind, and yet, the organ still worked—his one of a kind steam-powered creation. How in heaven—?

He had to be around here somewhere…didn't he? What if she really was alone down here? What if it was just her and his decaying shell?

In a final, sweeping chorus, the pipe organ grew still once more. And suddenly, it was as quiet as the grave.

There were only two other rooms of which she knew that made up the Phantom's lair. Two rooms—one for her…and one for him.

Swallowing, Christine sat the box down carefully on the mostly undamaged side table and proceeded to search first her room…and then his.

Her room was in shambles, all of the knick-knacks he had purchased for enjoyment, the valuable silk coverings and linens, shredded and trampled. Even her mattress had not escaped the mob's clutches. Feather tic had fallen like snow to cover every surface.

Yet oddly enough, the contents of her chifferobe remained untouched.

Carefully, Christine made her way out of the bedroom, and drawing a deep breath, tried the secret door hidden by his music room. The shadow of the organ and the blending of the gray stone made this room appear non-existent except for the most ardent of pursuers.

Christine had never even entered it.

She only knew of it because she had chanced upon it early one morning when Erik had left her here alone to see to the details of the upcoming orchestral production. It wasn't until later that she realized he had been delivering missives, blackmailing and terrorizing both the cast and crew into compliance.

With a trembling hand, she tried the knob.

It held fast.

She took out the key and fitted it into the lock. The key fit but it still wouldn't turn.

The lock held fast.

Inspiration struck when she remembered the Persian having manipulated the wall beside the locked grate too fast for her to see. Christine felt along the seam. She heard a click, and then the door swung silently open. She stepped carefully inside.

The light in this room was subdued.

There was no bed, nor very much furniture. No ornamental knick-knacks or keepsakes in this room. There was only a plinth and Sweet Jesu! A coffin painted in shiny black lacquer which rested in pride of place upon it!

The lid was closed.

She began to shake once more, and slowly, she backed out and closed the door.

His body! His decaying corpse!

She did NOT want to see it!

…and yet…

_No!_

She ran back to the mirror box, and opened it, hoping for some clue as to what she must do, what he wanted her to do.

The box opened, and yet another unopened letter appeared within. At this point, it did not surprise her in the least.

Her nerves frayed, she broke the seal:

_Dearest Christine,_

_You must forgive Erik his theatrics, my dear. If these things frightened you, then Erik is sorry. _

_Have you yet tried the hidden door leading to Erik's quarters? Of course you have my Pandora. And Erik imagines that you have found the coffin hidden within. Do not open that particular box, Pandora. Leave Erik that much, at least._

_In venturing down, you have made a choice, a choice to forsake your suitor for a life of the stage. _

_Erik would like to help you along your journey… _

_The key that led you to Erik's home also opens a small compartment found within the box itself. Bring the box toward Erik's closet bureau and sit it down. Look toward the back bottom of the box in a gap between two of tile edges. Open the compartment, Christine. _

_Erik shall wait…_

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.

That was all the note said. Taking the key once more, Christine turned the box and found the smallest of keyholes hidden between two panes of mirrored glass. With bated breath, she turned the key.

A drawered compartment slid silently free.

Christine gasped.

A drawer as deep as the box itself and lined in black velvet was filled to the brim with a fortune in jewels!

Diamonds as big as her thumb, emeralds and rubies the size of robin's eggs. A lovely set of sapphire and pearl earrings awaited her on top. The matching necklace draped below it.

A note set atop it all.

She picked it up and read:

_Turn around Christine._

She shut her eyes tight. She should have seen this coming.

Really, she should have!

Bracing herself, she turned around slowly, knowing exactly what, or rather _who,_ would be standing before her.

"Hello, my dear."

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_**A/N**_: Things are starting to heat up finally. Yay! This was a chapter I couldn't wait to post!

Now, after taking a break from writing, my muse is back with a vengeance. Good grief! 19,000 words in two and half days! Two and a half days time, dear reader! I am riding this creative roller coaster for however long my muse can stand. I hope you'll continue to join me along the way.

We'll see where it gets us this time…

_**DGM**_

_**please review. It means the world to this authoress and all feedback is appreciated.**_


	4. A Chance in Hell

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_**A/N:**_ My muse is still going strong! 25k+ and still no end in sight to this story. Perhaps, dear reader, I might just finish it without a hiatus after all! :D Keep your fingers crossed!

_**DGM**_

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Part IV: A Chance in Hell

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"More smoke and mirrors, Erik?"

His lips quirked, and he bowed slightly before her. Christine stared openly at him.

He was wearing the flesh-colored mask he spoke of the night of the fire. And had she not known it for a mask, she would have assumed his visage to be normal, undamaged.

It really was incredibly lifelike.

"No, Mademoiselle Daae, Erik has performed for you his last trick." He gestured to the mirror box. "They are yours, my dear. Erik thought it most fitting to give his little Pandora a box."

"And I'm to just take them?" Slowly, she began backing away towards the door, leaving the fortune in jewels on the sideboard untouched.

He followed her carefully. "Erik wants nothing from you, Christine." Turning, she made her way to the wrecked music room, picking her way carefully among the debris. "Erik only wants to see his Christine perform on stage. _Where she belongs_."

Christine turned back abruptly to face him. "And I'm to believe that? You wrote those letters knowing I'd think you were dead!"

He looked at her desperately, "Erik is not sorry for it Christine. Not when those letters guided you here!" He gestured to his wreck of a home. "Not when you have chosen to return to your first love, your passion of music! You sang beautifully by the way." He smiled, but she missed it, choosing instead to set to rights a straight-back chair.

She sat and closed her eyes feeling queasy. Oh, what a fool she had been! Twice! A fool to come here! A fool to leave! She stated tiredly, "What do you want from me, Erik? What does the _Angel of Music_ want as his dues? And what of the _Phantom_? What does _he_ want?"

A whisper of air and Christine opened her eyes to find him kneeling before her. She drew back, but his Voice set her at ease, calm in its quiet certainty.

"No Angel, no Phantom, Christine." He shook his head. "Just Erik. And he wants nothing but to see to your happiness, your safety, and to see that your career reaches the summit of success."

She narrowed her eyes, "Yes, and what do _you_ want from _me_ in exchange for those things?"

His eyes narrowed contemplatively, and Christine saw the flesh-toned mask wrinkle a bit to accommodate the movement. At length, he stated, "Erik has broken your faith, Christine. And for this, he is sorry. You would never have asked such a question of your _Angel of Music_."

Christine laughed bitterly, "No. I wouldn't have done. But then, I thought my Angel was of God."

They both flinched at the words. He looked at her sadly. "Yes, and instead, you found a demon."

She threw up her hands. "Oh, Erik! Good Grief! You're not a demon! The world is filled with more than just angels and demons, you know?" She turned her back on him in frustration, "You're just… you're human. And humans make mistakes."

She heard him draw a gasped breath, but she didn't need to look at him to know that her words of explanation had the opposite effect of what she attended.

She steeled herself for what she had to say next. "I do not love you, you know?" She said this to the torn carpet, picking the hole bigger with the toe of her shoe.

Silence stretched taut between them; so taut, she was compelled to fill it.

"I hardly got the chance, after all. And so much fear, anger, and uncertainty marred our friendship—if you could even call it that. Tell me, do you still expect me to be your living wife, Erik?"

Again, there was a whisper of air.

Christine turned, and he was there right before her, studying her with his yellow eyes.

"Erik still has hope—" Christine turned away from him, refusing to hear any more.

"How the hell do I get out of here, Erik? I want to leave. _NOW_!"

For the first time since that night, he put his hands on her and forcibly turned her to face him. "But that is _Erik's_ hope—_Erik's_ burden to bear. Not yours, Christine! Never again yours, and Erik vows he will never lie to you again!"

Still, she tried to break his hold, but he held fast, forcing her to stand still and meet his gaze, "Listen, Christine! Erik will never withhold truth from his beloved again for lies and untruths brought him such pain."

Christine stopped struggling and grew still.

"Just please, Christine. Erik begs of you. Give him a chance to show you things will be different. That he has changed. Please, that is all Erik wants from you, Christine. A chance."

She tested the hands holding her wrists and found them pliant. She pulled free of himand took a step away. He followed undeterred. "All that Erik wants is for Christine to let him be her partner."

Christine laughed, an ugly sound that fell harsh on both sensitive sets of ears.

He gulped, his eyes going wide. "It is true! Erik would like to be Christine's partner. But if this cannot be, Erik can content himself with helping Christine from afar. Giving her the monetary and political support she needs to be able to become what she was born to be." He lifted his gloved hand to her cheek, and Christine turned her head away, backing up another step until she was up against the wall and away from his touch.

She thought she heard him sigh.

"Why, Erik?" It was the only question she wanted an answer to, and he gave her the only answer she couldn't believe.

He looked at her sadly, "Oh, my girl. Erik has broken you!" Christine saw him give her a pitying look. "Erik does this—_he does this_, Christine! _For love_."

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Christine broke away from the wall, feeling the beginnings of an impending headache. She massaged the afflicted area with a vengeance as she stated, "I need time to think things over."

He looked at her eagerly. "Of course! Erik will happily give his Christine all the time she needs."

A determined glint came to her eye, and she said to him what she never would have dreamed of saying to the Phantom or her Angel, "I am _NOT_ _your_ Christine! I never have been, nor will I _ever_ be! Erik, I—I need time...and…and distance in order to decide."

He immediately took a step back. "Erik is sorry, my dear. He meant for you to have both time and distance should you choose them." The corners of his mouth quirked slightly, and Christine could have sworn he was smiling.

Although with his next words, the teasing gleam had disappeared, "If you walk back to the sideboard, you shall find two tickets in addition to the jewels. One will take you to Rome and a very prestigious Opera that has heard of your talent and is willing to audition you for their Prima Donna role. Erik has made contacts there that will see your fledgling career established on fertile ground." He studied her seriously, "However, Erik cannot accompany you other…" and the hopeful light returned once more to his eyes, "The other, Christine, is for a steam ship bound for America. That is where Erik is journeying in two days time, and that is where Erik hopes you shall as well."

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Two days. He had given her two days to think over this outrageous proposal.

She could choose never to see him again and still have all of the success she ever dreamed, or she could choose to partner him…let him guide and assist her.

He wanted to be her business partner only…that's what he said. Hadn't he? That's what he would settle for.

_Settle._

Christine closed her eyes and leaned her head against the cool pane of glass in the opulent hotel. He had insisted on escorting her to a hotel and installing her in their finest suite.

She had not lied when she told him she didn't love him. How could she? She hardly knew the _man_ at all. She knew of his passion, of his foul temper, and his raging fits of pique. She knew of his celestial Voice and beautiful music. But she didn't know _him_.

She didn't know what made Erik… Erik, and she doubted she would ever know even _if_ she were inclined to pursue it.

Earlier that evening, she had written a letter to Raoul calling off their engagement and telling him exactly where he could find his ring. The letter, she found, was not that difficult to write at all. It seemed her heart had composed it some time ago, and only needed permission from her mind to set it to ink. She had chosen to take nothing from the Chateau save the few keepsakes that she always wore on her person that fit into her reticule and the clothes she now wore.

She felt lighter and freer than she had in months, perhaps years!

She had also written a letter to Madam Giry and Meg informing them of her decision to not marry Raoul, and giving them the majority of the money Erik had provided for her journey should she choose the ticket to Rome.

She sincerely hoped they used it to start anew!

Theirs was the more difficult of the two letters to write, and how could she explain—? Could she even explain— especially in light of Madam's last lecture— why she had chosen the path she had. Choosing to severely edit what she shared, she gave them the barest of facts. They knew when she would contact them but not from where.

Hell! Even she didn't know where she was headed!

She had chosen to leave the mirrored box with Erik. However, he had, for some unknown reason, insisted she take the key.

No matter which road she chose, she did not want to take his wealth. She sincerely believed it would have been a form of theft to do so. She did not love him, and she could not reciprocate in any way the generosity he was showing her. Besides she knew from watching La Sorelli and the other girls in the opera house with their admirers, gifts of that nature always seemed to come with strings; no matter if the giver disclosed them or not.

She looked over at her trunk, packed with a few of the fine things Erik had sent for her to wear from his subterranean home. They were the clothes of a Diva, not the clothes of a future Countess. Bright-colored, beautiful confections in the richest of silks that drew the eye and enhanced her natural beauty and coloring.

Next to them, the dress she still wore of Raoul's looked drab and childish by comparison.

The trunk had arrived only moments ago as did the dinner Erik had ordered for her.

The man honestly did not understand the meaning of the words _time_ and _distance_. And yet, all of his deeds had been thoughtful.

_All of them. _

Against her will, Christine felt herself soften a little towards him.

He was being generous and very accommodating; so unlike both her Angel and Phantom and more like… well, more like a friend or partner.

And he was sincere.

He was sincere in his apologies and sincere in his feelings towards her. That was a welcome change from what she had known since the night of the fire. And he told her he would never lie, never withhold the truth from her again… That is _if_ she chose to believe.

She bit her lip and looked at the two tickets. One bound for a life in Rome; the other for an adventure in America with only Erik by her side. One a complete uninhibited freedom should she trust in herself to take it; the other a challenge fraught with danger to her mind as well as her heart should she decide.

Eyes wide open, she made her choice and watched emotionless as the other ticket went up into flames.

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Erik was not a religious man.

But this did not stop him from praying devoutly to some nameless, faceless god that his Christine would choose America— choose _him._

He waited…and waited… and waited some more.

And while he waited, he thought of her.

She had matured since her time away from the Opera…_away from him_. Scant months had passed, but it seemed she had changed more in those months than she had in all the years since Erik had begun tutoring her. She had become jaded and bitter towards him, and he lamented the fact that he was the one to have instigated this change.

But then, he had always taken the most beautiful things and turned them into ugly manifestations of themselves. Look at his torture chamber. His music. Hell, even his opera house was proof!

And should she choose him—_if_ she chose him…

Erik heard the steward give the last call for final boarding. His jaw tight, he gripped the wooden railing in a crushing hold and hung his head.

She had made her choice after all.

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**_A/N:_** Oh, dear...

_**DGM**_

**_please review. It means the world to this authoress and all feedback is appreciated._**


	5. A Hell of a Note

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_**A/N:**_ Those of you just tuning in, please disregard this message. Those of you that have been with me since chapter one when I began submitting, please note the title change of the first chapter. It is a small but not insignificant detail the authoress wishes for you to fully appreciate.

_**DGM**_

Now…without further adieu….

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Part IV: A Hell of a Note

Christine observed the Opera House in Rome that Erik had recommended.

It held a stately elegance and old-world charm that the Populaire somehow did not. It was nothing regal like the Populaire, and yet, there was a vitality to it, a real-world grittiness that drew her immediately and made her want to be a part of it.

Getting to this point had been fraught with adventure in and of itself.

Upon exiting the train, she had been bombarded with vendors, street urchins, and thieves. Remembering well her lessons traveling with her father, Christine had hidden all of her valuables and money in her shoes, and carried the letter Erik had written attached to the train ticket inside her glove.

Constantly, she wondered if she had made a mistake in choosing to go to Rome.

But, had she chosen to be with him, she would have always been under his shadow, his guidance, always 'taken care of' by him, and that was not the way she wanted to live her life.

At least, she didn't think so.

And so, in training her voice, Erik had bestowed upon her the power to wield her own fate and discover her own destiny.

She was a fool for not realizing this sooner.

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Perdon, I mean mi scusi, Signore, but I'm looking for Signore Davide. Signore Davide? Do you know of him?"

"No, Signorina. Non capisco."

"Yes, but—" Making a rather abrupt motion, the stage hand turned and walked away.

Christine's grade school Italian was spotty at best, but in the unspoken language of movement, of which the Italians were masters, she realized she had just been rather rudely insulted.

This was the fifth person she had tried to talk to. Honestly! The letter had Signore Davide's name emboldened on it. What more could they want from her?! She tried once more to get someone's attention. This time, the man blatantly ignored her.

Growing increasingly frustrated with the avoidance of the cast and crew, Christine took the stage.

Upon gaining stage center, she drew a centering breath and proceeded to sing the roof down.

The first beat had the talking and hammering fall away to silence. The second had all assembled holding their collective breaths in order to hear. The third had the manager of the Opera running down the aisle, La Carlotta and Piangi fast on his heels.

Christine's singing ceased abruptly as she gazed down at her former rival and her inamorata.

"Non! Non! Non! NON! I forbid this—this _THING_ from being in _MY_ OPERA HOUSE! OUT! OUT VILE, LITTLE TOAD!" The painted woman screeched at the top of her lungs.

Taking this unexpected surprise in stride, Christine merely smiled, and held out her letter. "Signore Davide?" she asked.

The man, in his seventies if he was a day, nodded slightly and grew still at the letter in Christine's hand. He reached for it, and Christine was surprised to see that his hand trembled; his pallor had also paled considerably.

Carlotta gasped and nearly fainted from the shock of seeing the death's head once more emblazoned on the seal. Luckily, Piangi was there to catch her when she did indeed faint. Christine studied the man as he studied the letter in her outreached hand. The letter she had yet to give him… she bit her lip.

She was at a crossroads; a horrid place, really.

She could use Erik's letter to further her career, but there was no telling what he had put in that note. However, the presence of both Piangi and La Carlotta did not bode well.

In a split-second decision, Christine crumpled the note she held in her gloved fist, and smiling, turned and walked off the stage never once looking back.

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"Scuse, Signorina! Signorina! Wait! Please."

Christine looked behind her. One of the men, a stage-hand, she had approached upon entering the building had followed her out the door. "Please, you are French, yes?" The new-comer said in a travesty of her native tongue.

Christine smiled, and replied just as badly in Italian. "Yes. Yes, I am."

He smiled charmingly and doffed his cap. "I am Gasparo. I volunteer here as a stage-hand for the opera here, but my life is generally il ristorante."

Christine looked at him curiously. He walked them over to a shaded grove and gestured to a building up the street. "I own a ristorante."

"Wrist-or-ron-tay?" Christine narrowed her eyes and sounded it out again. "Oh! A restaurant! You own a restaurant!"

He smiled again. "Si! Si! And I hear you sing. Oh, the talent! So much! Please, sing for me, for my guests tonight?"

Christine smiled, more than flattered by the offer.

She had only just turned down the only prospect she had, and she was almost destitute from having given nearly all of what Erik had given her to Madam Giry and Meg. It was a fact she had maybe two or three days worth of money left. Four perhaps if she found an inexpensive boarding house, and skimped on meals. Her eyes narrowed as she licked her lips.

"How much does it pay?"

The man laughed and stated a figure that sounded exorbitant to Christine's ears. She instantly agreed, and he led her to the restaurant, a lavish affair with a lantern-lit courtyard and olive trees strewn throughout.

It would be a beautiful, romantic place come evening.

Mentally, she patted herself on the back. She had been in Italy for all of two hours, and already she had a job.

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.

That night, she cried herself to sleep, freezing in the rundown hovel she had rented with the last of her tradable possessions.

Oh, she had sung that night, sung beautifully for all of the restaurant's patrons, and even those who had stopped in their errands on the street and wandered into the restaurant to hear. They threw coins at her feet, and Gasparo helpfully collected them while, smiling, she continued to sing.

And that night, she had eaten lavishly of the restaurant's fare, assuming it was to be included with her performance as her dues. At least, that was what she had thought. The charming owner had plied her with more and more wine until Christine's head spun. He had ordered rich delicacies for her to savor. And then, when she was flattered with his overblown complements and fed with his more than sumptuous fare, he presented her the bill.

It seemed she had spent a great deal more than she had made for she had not taken into account the difference between the Lira and the Franc in terms of currency. And when she questioned him about the money the patrons threw to her, he explained that this wasn't in their contract.

It was, after all, thrown on his property, and therefore, _his money to keep_.

He explained that she still, in point of fact, owed him for her dinner. And when the topic of summoning the police was brought forth, it was agreed that she sing for him tomorrow night as well to settle the remaining debt.

When she had explained that she needed to keep some of the money she still had in order to find a place to stay the night, again, the restaurant owner threatened to call the police, for he refused to let her leave the premises still owing him debt.

Graciously, the restaurant owner's mother had offered her the hovel in which she now slept; a drafty, filthy place with no running water, no bed…not even a chamber pot!

His mother had wanted nothing in return for this kindness.

However, when she asked about a bed, the lady had her trade the mother-of-pearl comb she wore in her hair for a pile of questionably-clean blankets she could use for a pallet on the floor. Her gold wristlet went to purchase a chamber pot.

Oh, what a mistake this had been! How Erik would laugh if he knew how right he was in her needing his help!

She felt lost. She was floundering and lost and this time quite alone in a very strange place with even stranger customs! There would be no Angel of Music to guide her. No Phantom to force her compliance and steer her to stardom.

She was alone.

The tears continued to flow.

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_**A/N:**_

Please no rotten tomatoes, spoiled heads of cabbage, putrid eggs, etc. shied at the authoress, dear, _gentle_ reader! Regrettably, one must have rainy days in order to fully appreciate the sun.

_**DGM**_


	6. A Hell of A Mess

Part VI: A Hell of a Mess

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Christine sang the following night to resounding applause, and the restaurant owner pronounced her debt-free with no obligation to him whatsoever.

But his mother had come behind him and claimed she had used more than her fair share of hot water and had used the soap and a towel that morning when she took a bath. And Christine had no more money or anything in trade to give them.

When she had stated she thought the terms of her renting the room for the night included a bath, the restaurant owner smiled sadly and shook his head.

And so it was that she spent her second night in the little hovel at the back of the restaurant. And she was expected to sing in exchange for having taken the bath this morning.

Christine could sense a pattern emerging.

She had not eaten in two days, and she was scared to touch anything else that was theirs.

She had no money.

For the second night in a row, she cried herself to sleep.

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Upon the third day, she had, in desperation, looked for Erik's letter, determined to return to the opera house tonight after she performed for her final debt and beg them to take her in.

But the letter had disappeared.

At the beginning of the third day, her stomach was clawing with hunger. It was torturous being surrounded by the scent, the smell of food cooking and being served all day long and not able to enjoy a bit of it.

Her only salvation had been telling herself that if she could just get through tonight, sing off the debt of her bath and get back to the opera house…if she could just get back to the trunk she left at the train station even, then all would be as it should.

By the end of the third day, she was feeling light-headed as she took the terrace-stage for her final song. She began to sing, but her vision began to swim.

She drew a centering breath and black dots appeared before her.

She had fainted, dead away.

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Freedom.

She had lost her freedom for the price it took for a doctor to be called to assist her; a doctor who had pronounced her in need of a decent night's rest and a good meal.

Gasparo had named the figure in francs that she owed him, and she felt the light-headed sensation begin anew. It would take her months! Months at the rate she was going to pay back what she owed!

But Gasparo was kind, was he not? He had called a doctor when she had gotten so ill, and all he expected was to be repaid in turn.

And so, indeed, a pattern had emerged.

In exchange for her hovel of a room, the privilege of bathing twice a week in a wooden washtub with lye soap, and one meal a day courtesy of Gasparo, Christine performed for the dinner patrons at il ristorante while they dined and threw money at her feet.

Money that she never once got to keep.

Money.

How she grew to loathe the word!

Never before had she had to be so cost-conscious, so incredibly thrifty with what she found. And so it was, she scoured the refuse piles found around the restaurant looking for anything—anything of value that she could use to her advantage.

Her father had taken care of her every need, and then all her expenses at the Populaire had been paid for by the expectation that she perform.

Gasparo refused to allow her to leave the restaurant premises, explaining she still owed him and threatened to summon the police for thievery should she try to do so.

She tried hard to think of it all as a game, an impoverished role she was playing. And through the bountiful gift of her imagination, freezing at night under thin and dirty blankets on a cold, dirt-packed floor became a wood-strewn ice-palace, and she its Dryad Queen. A queen cursed to spend her life in toil and drudgery.

The dirt now found constantly under her nails, no matter how vigorously she washed them clean, was a part of her costume. Her clothes, once vibrant-hued, crisp, and beautiful confections were now dingy, limp rags that suited her ever-increasingly emaciated frame quite ill.

The Dryad Queen had learned that if she wanted her clothes clean, she needed to wash them _before_ she washed herself as afterwards the water would be too dirty to remove even the mildest of dirt from the garments.

And so, she did so, washing the precious rags in lye and then washing herself; her ever-graying appearance becoming just another costume, just another tool to suit the role.

And how she was managing to fit disguised within the scenery of her little hovel, practically a part of its walls!

And the patrons began to complain, complained that the little songbird with the golden voice had such dowdy plumage. And reluctantly, Gasparo purchased her a dress to wear—a dress she was to perform in only. A hideously tacky, garishly-colored garment that did more to expose than to cover her up and suited her ever-graying appearance quite ill—that she was expected to pay for in addition to the doctor's debt.

And some day, someday soon, this curse would lift, and she, the Dryad Queen, would be free of this gray place with its gray walls. She would return once more to her verdant fairy world populated with a riot of color, beauty, and grace.

She would— she would…

She refused to think of the alternative.

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And so Christine, who had chosen to live most of her life within the dream world of her imagination, a world which was familiar and comforting when the rest of the world was not; a world she had spent a lifetime cultivating and tilling until it was second nature for her to do so, was per necessity of escape forced to spend morning, noon, and night there.

And yet, reality did have cause to intrude upon her at the most unpleasant of times…

Due to the harsh, abrasive qualities of the lye, her skin grew dry and oily respectively. Suddenly, her normally fair complexion was developing problems she otherwise had never had to deal with. The lye also dried out her hair causing it to frizz and split.

But the worst part—the worst part was the weight loss.

She was constantly hungry, her stomach a gaping maw that was only satisfied once a day from Gasparo's feelings of largesse towards her. Sometimes, the food he chose for her to eat made her sick. More and more often, though, it didn't, and it wasn't because the quality or quantity had improved.

Christine was past the point of caring.

She once tried to sneak some of the night's excesses from the bin—those the restaurant did not serve and instead threw away—into her hovel for later, but Gasparo's mother had caught her at it, and through cries of "ladro femmina!" and "Polizia!" Christine had thrown them back quickly into the bin and fled to her hovelled room. A lock had appeared on the lid of the garbage can the next day.

Bathing in the wooden tub, she now noticed how she could count her ribs, and this too was a novelty that had never happened before. She no longer needed to wear her corset as she could now draw tight the stays with plenty of room left over.

However, she no longer cried at night.

She couldn't spare the excess salt; nor the energy. It was all she could do to get up each night to perform. And even then, she felt like she was doing so in a fogged haze.

She passed many days in daydreams, imagining her escape, her rescue, her flight away from this Hell. However, more and more increasingly, her imagination failed her. And sometimes in these lucid breaks to reality, she pondered over the surreal turn her life had taken. And sometimes, she thought back to what it once was.

How many wasted opportunities had she been given? How many chances had she blown?

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"Egh, principessa del porcile. Si canta in cinque minuti." _You sing in five minutes_. Over and over again, day after day. Christine raised her head lethargically from her pallet of dirty blankets and the nap she was now forced to take during the day so that she would have energy for the night to come.

It was becoming increasingly harder for her to stay awake during the day, and since she could no longer imagine herself away from this hell, imagine her escape, she chose instead to sleep.

She did not dream.

Day, night. Morning, evening. She had no reference, no compass anymore, not even the sun.

Now a fixture in il ristoranti, the usual patrons no longer stopped eating to hear her songs nor threw coins. But word of her talent had spread throughout Rome: _The Frenchy with the funny hair, cracking hands, and beautiful voice_, they called her. And many were the nights that she heard patrons say they've wandered all over Rome just to find her.

Those words gave her hope.

For if they could find her in this backwater place, surely... but no. She had quite used up all her chances for saving grace she was sure. She had been given far too many by half as it was.

And if there was one thing this experience had taught her, it was the expendability of herself.

Months spent in Rome, and she still didn't have the slightest clue where she was or have a better grasp of the language. Gasparo refused to tell or teach her anything, citing that he couldn't understand her speech. Every new word she knew of the language, she heard from piecing together from the patrons themselves.

Once, she had tried to inquire about things outside while talking with the patrons after she performed. For _outside_ it had become to her. But when Gasparo had seen her questioning a gentleman who spoke a smattering of French in addition to Italian, he ordered her never to speak with the patrons again as per their agreement.

She was paid to sing _only_. Well, that and do menial chores around the restaurant. Wash dishes, scrub floors, and wash linens…all in hope of repaying her debt _that_ much sooner.

But she was fed and given a place to sleep, a way to wash herself and her clothes were she so inclined. She was given a way to repay her debts, instead of sent to prison, and for this, Gasparo told her, she should be grateful.

She had no idea how long she had been there; she had no idea how much she still had to go.

And that was a lesson this experience had taught her.

How truly ignorant of the world she was. She could talk _ad naseum_ about musical theory, meter, and rhyme. She could recite a Latin Mass and understand every word. German, Swedish, French. She was relatively fluent in all three.

But ask her to point out on a map where she was, and she was lost. Ask her the value of the currency being thrown at her feet nightly, and she didn't have a clue. Ask her where the blasted bathroom was in the country's native tongue, and she could only look blankly, uncomprehending.

And so it was that she learned from this experience ignorance could get her killed, that ignorance was a terrible thing.

That she was truly, completely ignorant and out of her depths.

And so it was that after a while, Christine had quite forgotten that there was even a world out there separate from the world she was in. Il ristoranti had become her world, her fishbowl.

And she its star attraction.

_You sing in five minutes_. The words reverberated like knives inside her skull slowly killing her. _You sing in five minutes_. The death knell of her hopes—her dreams. _You sing in five minutes_. A mockery of her former self, her life before. _You sing in five minutes_.

Oh, Erik!

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And so the days and nights and performances blurred seamlessly together.

Yet, this night—this night found her again sobbing herself to sleep. She had been so proud of herself; she hadn't done so in such a long time!

But tonight! Oh this cursed night!

She had learned yet another lesson today in this degrading experience: a lesson in expendability.

Her voice had been a bit off lately.

She had caught a cold due to lack of proper nutrition and hygiene and had not been able to rest properly due to her chores and fits of coughing. When she told Gasparo that she couldn't sing, that she was ill, and perhaps needed a doctor, he told her that without her singing, he could no longer allow her to stay behind the restaurant. Without her singing, he would have no choice but to turn her into the police for failing to repay him. That another cost of a doctor would be too exorbitant a price for her to pay, and he could not afford to foot the bill for her.

…and so Christine sang.

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Of course this had been the night someone who knew her had appeared!

_Of_ _course!_

Christine took to her little corner nook of the terrace and began to sing, her voice thready, tired, and weak.

A woman's shocked gasp and then ringing laughter interrupted her song, and she pulled herself out of her fog of dreams to see who the woman was.

It was _La Carlotta_.

The diva herself had come to pay her respects to _the Frenchy with the funny hair, dry and cracking hands, and beautiful voice_. Her inamorata Piangi was seated beside her as were a few others Christine had never had cause to meet.

All of them were well-dressed and clean.

All of them well-fed.

At least Piangi had the good grace to look embarrassed on her behalf. The others looked at her sad state in disgust, some in pity.

Her cheeks burning from embarrassment, from shame. Yet on she sang.

Christine tuned them out and focused once more on her song—which admittedly was very hard to do as her voice kept clawing and cracking, breaking at the slightest cause.

Drinking water only made it worse.

"Not so beautiful, is she now, Ubaldo? And that voice, _THAT VOICE_! Croaking like the toad she is!" As she talked, she made sure to do so loudly and in her imperfect French so that Christine understood every single word. A friend of hers helpfully translated in Italian. "And och, the smell of her! Why she reeks to high heaven. I'm surprised there are any patrons left in this place that can eat." She watched as the other diners closest to her terraced spot nodded slightly in their agreement, pushing back their, as of yet, untouched plates.

Christine's voice began to tremble with emotion, some nameless, desperate clawed thing was borne at that moment, ripping, tearing its way through her throat, trying to escape, to survive!

With a choked gasp, her voice quivered and gave out.

And Christine looked around— shocked!

Had that noise—that awful, dying sound come from her?

_Her_ _voice_?

She tried to continue but found she could only rasp, pushing now useless, fruitless air through her vocal chords.

To Christine's dismay, patrons began rising from their tables, shaking their heads, and leaving the restaurant.

Again, La Carlotta laughed, and this time, the others at her table joined in. "Finally! Finally the little toad is rendered mute! Oh, but look, Signore, she is succeeding. She is succeeding at driving all your business away!"

Even a few of the restaurant's regular guests smiled and laughed with her.

Gasparo made his way over to her, and although he appeared to solicitously lead her from the terrace. In reality, he had a death grip on her arm. He whispered in her ear, "I told you what would happen, could you not sing, did I not signorina? But having la polizia here for you is not worth hassle it would take to procure them. I will never get my money back now! You are worthless—worthless!

Out the door with you! And never! _Ever_! Return!

He ejected her bodily from the building, throwing her out into the streets; the door closing violently behind her.

Coughing and breathing hard, Christine looked around.

She had only the skimpy, garish costume she wore, not even her blanket to keep her warm.

And night had fallen.

She had nowhere else to go.

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_**A/N**_: Oh, dear. Oh, dear…

_**DGM**_

_**please review. It means the world to this authoress and all feedback is appreciated.**_


	7. Hell to Pay

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**_A/N:_** Your authoress spoils you with updates, please pamper her with a review, won't you? ;D

**_DGM_**

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Part VII: Hell to Pay

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"Please. I have to find the Signorina. It's urgent! I heard from two of my cast she was here."

"I tell you once again. She left! She is no longer here!"

"Please! Lives may depend on it! Where did she go?"

"I know not, I tell you. She went to bed. She has been falling ill, and my mother, she went to check on her, and found her gone. Just. Like. That." Christine watched from her hidden perch in the alley across the street as Gasparo snapped his fingers in front of the other man's nose.

She recognized the other man he was talking to.

He was Signore Davide from the Opera House. And he looked decidedly ill. It was at that moment that she realized they were talking about her! About _her_ whereabouts. And Gasparo was lying! He was lying about what happened—where she was!

If anything , the news of her so-called _disappearance_ paled the Signore further. Trying not to cough, Christine gathered her energy to approach them.

Signore Davide was looking for her! Perhaps, perhaps that meant that Erik was looking for her as well?!

And Christine realized that she was missing her chance to approach the two. She began walking towards them but watched as Gasparo narrowed his eyes. He had spotted her! Suddenly, he put his arm around the older man and turned him bodily away from her with an affable smile.

"The signorina, she left all her belongings here. Surely she will return to them soon."

Christine was only a smattering of steps away from them now. Perhaps twenty or so. She willed her body to move faster, gain speed. She began to wheeze, the dreaded cough coming back again full force. And she had to stop, her hands on her diaphragm, mutely gasping for breath.

She watched, helpless, as the man pulled out the mirror box from his coat pocket. "Please, you must give her this. It's urgent, I tell you! Urgent!"

Forcing herself to move, she began to walk once more, her eyes, her singular focus was on the old man and the box he held. Using her rasping, ruin of a voice, she tried to yell, to scream for him to take notice of her.

All that came out was a hiss of air.

She began clapping her hands, stomping her feet, waving frantically. Signore Davide did not respond; he could not hear her from the other louder sounds in the street.

"Of course, Signore. Of course." Gasparo smiled and took the box secreting it in his pocket, looking straight at her.

Christine began to sweat.

"Think nothing more of it. As soon as I see the Signorina again, it shall be hers." Gasparo promised.

The aged man looked only slightly relieved of his burden but nodded anyway, and stoop-shouldered, he hobbled away.

Gasparo smiled viciously at her, and turning, slowly walked to his kitchen door.

Still, Christine slowly pursued.

Removing the mirror box from his pocket, he examined it closely. He waited until she was a foot from the door, "You can consider your debt, _Signorina_, repaid."

And then he closed the door in her face, locking it tight.

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Christine watched the comings and goings of the restaurant all that day and then the next.

She was hardly able to stand due to illness, but on she watched, hidden from all. A policeman saw her when making his rounds, and she scurried quickly to her makeshift pallet by the refuse heap that not even the most intrepid of policemen would dare venture.

To her dismay, her cough had turned into a grating wheeze that made her lungs burn and filled her eyes with fire. She drank as much water from the public fountain as she could, but due to her sore throat, and the coughing, it wasn't much.

Eyes bright with fever, on she watched. And finally, when the restaurant had closed for the night, when mother and son were seated at kitchen table as was their custom, she had her chance to peek inside the kitchen window and view…the mirror box.

Mother and son were studying it closely, trying to pry it open. At one point, Christine watched Gasparo take a knife from the wooden block and try to forcefully pry open the seam.

Christine was heartened to see that all he received for his pains was a shard of mirror in his thumb that his mother had to forcefully fish out and stitch back up. She mentally applauded Erik for his ingenious design.

His mother pronounced the thing to be pretty, ornamental trash fit for _al __principessa del__porcile_ and sought to throw it in the trash.

Gasparo stopped her, however. "It might be valuable, mama. You should have seen the man who gave it me; he wanted to make very certain the little _puttana__ stupida_ received this box.

"Language, Spasso!"The woman slapped him upside his head, but ruined the rebuke with a fond caress of his hair.

Christine was only catching every fourth word Gasparo and his mother were speaking, but it was enough to get the general gist. And she was certain he had just called her a foul name.

He smiled charmingly, "If anything, we could sell it." The old woman shrugged, fishing it out of the trash bin and setting it once more before him. Once more patting his hair lovingly, Gasparo's mother left the kitchen to seek the comfort of her bed.

Not daring to breathe, lest she wheeze, Christine watched as Gasparo pocketed the box and blowing out the kitchen lamp, made for a bed of his own.

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There was no choice, none at all.

She simply _had_ to get that box.

She would die without it, of that she was certain.

Was it stealing? Would her soul go to hell for this?

Christine laughed silently. Her soul in Hell? She was in Hell already!

Besides, she was the one that held the key—the key that Erik had told her needed to remain on her person at all times. The key that was safely tucked away in her trunk still stowed at the train station.

Agh, she could kick herself she really could!

_IF_ she could get the box…_IF_ she could make it to the train station…, _IF_…

Quietly as possible, she maneuvered through the slightly open kitchen window.

Months of starvation had leant her usually curved figure a match-stick quality, and without hesitation, she slid right through. Months of learning each and every inch of the kitchen's floors intimately while scrubbing on her hands and knees told her exactly which boards would be silent and allow her to pass, and which boards would squeak and betray her presence completely.

Quietly, she crept, not a single sound did she make. Erik would have been so proud of her! By then, she really could have vied with him for the part of resident Ghost.

Silently, she opened Gasparo's bedroom door on hinges freshly oiled just last week from her labors.

And she peeked inside.

Gasparo was a man who slept in the altogether; Christine was glad to see. For although the sight was distasteful, the relief she felt upon spying his trousers strewn haphazardly over the back of his chair more than made up for the distasteful sight.

Slowly, she crept, counting steps just as she counted Gasparo's measured breathing. _1-2-3-4 pause for breath, Christine. Support. 5-6-7-8 step lightly Christine, lightly. 1-2-3-4 another step and then another. 5-6-7-8 pause for breath, Christine. Support._ This was her chant. Her litany. She had cause to thank both Erik and Madam Giry for their assistance otherwise she never would have been able to make it over to the chair so quietly.

With trembling hands, she reached for his pants.

And that's when a match was struck.

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"Looking for this?"

Christine closed her eyes, her shoulders sagging in defeat. He was speaking his grating, horrible French once more to her.

"Yes, I had thought you'd come for this. Be a good little girl, and throw me my trousers, won't you?"

Trembling in rage as much as fright, Christine complied, refusing to look at him.

She heard him rise from the bed, put them on, and then fasten them securely.

He walked over to her and whispered softly in her ear, "Perhaps. Perhaps had this happened before, we could have found a different trade." She flinched as she felt his heavy hand fall across her waist. "As it is now, you are nothing more than rags and bone, signorina. I would have to be especially _allupato_ to want this."

And Christine felt his hands cup her unprotected, shrunken breast and squeeze—hard!

Tears fell from her eyes.

"I will offer you a deal, _puttana_. You will tell me how to open the box, and I will let you leave without calling the police. If you do not, I will call the police and tell them you are a prostitute caught stealing." And he twisted her breast hard, so hard, she gasped forcing herself into a coughing fit.

Not having anything else to hold on to, she held on to him, but he violently shoved her away.

"Get your filthy, _malato_ ass away from me!"

She slid down against the wall, coughing so hard, she saw stars while Gasparo made a production of wiping his hand where he had touched her.

"Well? What's it to be, _puttana_? The rest of your life in prison or free?"

Christine finally finished her coughing, and looked up at him with eyes bright with fever. While in her fit, she realized something, something profound! Something that had her seeing clearly for the first time in what felt like years.

_She was dying!_

And she had _absolutely_ nothing left to lose!

Her eyes flinty, she answered him, "I choose prison, _puttana_."

She lost consciousness shortly thereafter.

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Precious few were the moments that were spent in consciousness; she had been placed in the prison's isolation to keep her fever from spreading. And although she still suffered from chills due to the fever and her lungs burned from that terrible, gurgling wheeze, she wasn't treated as badly as she had been.

For at least now she had access to three meals a day of bread and broth _and_ the presence of a physician. These things a futile gesture at best, but still, it comforted her— the dying, thieving prostitute of Cellblock 219r3.

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"I told you, _sir_. That's the isolation ward. No one's allowed in there now 'cept some whore dying a' the clap and the quack attendin' her. She was turned in from being a thief just t'other day. And no one's come to claim 'er since."

The other's voice was too low to hear, but Christine heard the jailer's. It was certainly a voice one couldn't mistake with its closed off nasal passages and whining, self-important falsetto.

"Her name? Did ya not jus hear what I said? We don' _know_ her name. Jesus!... … … Alrigh-alrigh! You end up sick, it's your funeral, pal. This way."

Christine heard the door to her cellblock grate open with a screech. She flinched. Her voice may have been damaged. Her lungs inflamed and fluid-filled. But damn if her ears weren't still perfect.

And suddenly, the door to her miniscule cell was being drawn and two pairs of footsteps entered. She felt like a freak on display behind bars. For their amusement; that's all she was. And so resolved, she turned her head away from them so that they couldn't look. After all, they couldn't see her if she didn't look.

"Oh, Christine."

Her eyes fluttered.

"Christine. _Christine_!" The reverent whisper of her name nearly broke her heart.

That Voice. That _Voice_!

_**ERIK**_**!**

She tried to speak his name, but it came out a coughing gurgle instead.

And suddenly he was kneeling at her side, supporting her through her fit.

"What'd I say, sir? Now you'll be sick too! Jesus! The fools they send us! Back away from her. Maybe it's not yet too catchin'."

"_**LEAVE**_." he commanded; the word issued in a tone of lethal menace.

Christine sighed as she felt his cool hands press against her forehead and the side of her neck. His lowly Voiced _merde_ had her worried, but then he was humming softly to her, a lyrical phrase he wrote for her when she was a child, and instantly she felt soothed once more.

She began to drift.

"Come, Erik. They have released her, but Lazzaro now knows you're here. And we haven't much time."

Christine drew in on herself as she was being lifted and carried. Another coughing fit took her by surprise. And bracing herself weakly against the strong arms that carried her, she coughed until she saw stars.

And then she coughed until she saw no more.

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**_please review. It means the world to this authoress and all feedback is appreciated._**


	8. From the Jowls of Hell

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_**A/N:**_ Reviews are the grist that runs this authoress' creative mill. That said, I want to thank each of you that have offered a review. Your kind words and words of encouragement touch my heart!

_**DGM**_

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Part VIII: From the Jowls of Hell

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Erik was not a religious man.

He was not; he was not.

But he found himself on his knees before Christine's sickbed, praying to her God, to Nadir's, to the gods and goddesses of old, entreating—begging _anything_ Divine to save her, spare her life!

All of his extensive medical knowledge had been used. All of the medicines, poultices, and elixirs of which he knew, now useless.

Science had failed him.

He prayed that faith would not.

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Christine was in Heaven. She had to be. For that was the only explanation for why she felt so clean and feather-light.

She smiled, seeing her Papa and Mama holding their hands out to her, walking towards her.

She tried to quicken her stride, get to them more quickly, but she found she couldn't.

The lightness of her steps precluded her ability to run. She was literally floating, gliding toward them. Her Papa was smiling; her mother, _her beautiful mother!_ had tears of joy in her eyes.

On she soared, ever closer to them.

And in amazement, she heard her father's violin begin to play.

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Erik was not a religious man.

He had ceased praying three hours after midnight realizing the futility of it all. No God had ever answered his prayers. No God had ever heard his cries, his pleas.

He had never been one to wax superstitious, preferring, in point of fact, to capitalize on those that were. His mother had, after all, been one such person, and he learned at mother's knee, learned from her just how dangerous believing in superstition could be.

But he remembered a tale she told him long ago; a tale meant to keep him afraid of the dark, every bit as much as he was of the light. A tale meant to frighten him into compliance and obeisance when he was old enough to realize that daytime meant cruelty and nighttime meant freedom.

_The Witching Hour_ she had called it.

The time just after three in the morning when the veil separating the living from the dead was at its weakest, its most permeable. It was when the spirits of the dead walked the Earth, visiting, calling out and entreating their loved ones to join them.

Erik was not superstitious. He was not.

He was a man of science.

And yet…

He knew her time was drawing near; her lungs, her precious, inflamed, oxygen-starved lungs were slowly drowning her with their vile, infectious fluid. Yet, he instinctively knew somehow that if he could get her through this hour! This Witching Hour! If she could stay with him that long, then she would live.

The God he worshipped had been Music—how could he have forgotten this? His altar Sweet Music's Throne.

Sweet Music's Throne had been destroyed…and yet…

And yet, the music still remained.

Deliberately, Erik rosined his bow and for her he began to play.

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The violin played on and Christine recognized its tune.

_The Resurrection of Lazarus_.

Her father stopped walking, looking surprised. On the music played, never ceasing. And still she drifted ever closer towards them, her hands outstretched.

How she wanted to be with them so!

The music changed tempo slightly, and Christine realized this was not her father's playing at all. It was another, another who added much more variation and quirky phrasing to the melodic line. It was something she never heard before, an improvisation that kept distracting her, somehow stealing her joy at being reunited with her parents.

Shaking her head to clear the fogged trance she was under, she watched her father do likewise; his expression altering from happiness at seeing her to one of profound sadness. Quickly, he glided to her mother—her mother who had never stopped walking towards her with hands outstretched, and placing a hand gently on her shoulder, he shook his head.

The music altered again, transitioning seamlessly to a familiar melody; a melody written for a little girl who had been scared of death.

A melody making light of death in the face of all that was good and light.

Her mother looked at her father in confusion, but her father shook his head. And both turned and with hands upheld in farewell, began to draw back away from their daughter who was crying out for them, reaching, reaching!

Their daughter who was slowing in her momentum towards them.

Frantically, she tried to push herself to run, to escape the phantom thrall that held her captive and apart from them.

She could not.

Her fate was not her own.

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"Come back to me." A familiar Voice whispered. "Oh, Christine. Come back to your Erik!"

Christine drew breath and coughed violently, spitting up some of the fluid that sought to drown her. She ached! She burned! Her lungs were heavy and on fire!

And then she was being hoisted on her side and firm, almost violent, hands were beating on her back, inducing her to more and more fits of the aching coughing.

She coughed for what felt like days!

And then the beating of her back began to lessen, and gentle, massaging motions began to take its place.

Exhausted, she returned to unconsciousness once more.

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_**please review. It means the world to this authoress and all feedback is appreciated.**_


	9. Catch Hell

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_**A/N:**_ This next chapter was so much fun to write!

The authoress is posting earlier than usual today in hopes of reaching her 60th review… if she does, she has another chapter waiting in the wings ready to post today. ;D As always, thank you all so much for your kind words and encouragement. They mean so much!

_**DGM**_

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Part IX: Catch Hell

Christine could have sworn she was in hell!

Every bone, every cell, every follicle in and within her broken body ached and burned. But her chest, oh her chest was the worst!

"Ah, mademoiselle. So good of you to join us today." A cheerful voice called out to her.

Her eyes fluttered and then opened wide, sunlight streaming in from the glass windowpane nearly blinded her. It took her quite a moment to get her bearings as she thought back to what she remembered.

She remembered being sick, deathly so.

Gasparo had sent her to prison on false charges of thievery. The doctor had come to visit her only to explain there was nothing he could do. There was a priest? No. An Angel. An angel in black. And then her mother and father.

Her father's violin?

Her thoughts skittered like leaves in the wind, no longer making any sense.

And yet, here she was in _a room_. She was in an honest-to-goodness room with four walls and a bed! She was in a fluffy, scrumptious bed with crisp, clean linens.

And drawing as deep a breath as she was able, which admittedly wasn't much, she smelled flowers. Roses if she wasn't mistaken.

And incense—the smell of frankincense.

And her mind registered the absence of a smell. Narrowing her eyes, it took her a moment to realize what it was.

Herself.

She smelled clean!

Oh! She revised, immediately, her thoughts of this place as Hell as she weakly wriggled her bare toes in the crisp, clean sheets.

Her lungs may burn, her body ache, her throat feel afire, but _Sweet Jesu_! She was alive!

…and clean!

She was very, very clean.

She smiled, and closed her eyes once more basking in each of the separate emotions she was experiencing, and feeling a sense of tranquility and peace for the first time in a very long time fill her.

"Daroga, you may leave us."

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Christine's eyes flew open at the sound of _that_ Voice.

She swallowed thickly, her thoughts of peace lost to her. She suddenly found the flowered pattern of her quilt the subject of deepest fascination. A tray was placed before her. A tray containing steaming broth and herbal tea.

Her mouth watered even as her throat and stomach cringed.

The bed dipped as he sat before her, and then he was hugging her, pulling her up in a seemingly well-practiced move that had her seated up in bed facing him and the tray that lay between them. It was obvious this was somewhat a routine.

She still refused to meet his gaze, her lips pursed tightly. She would not cry—she would not cry—

"_Christine_."

Dammit! One tear fell, then two.

She could not look at him. She knew if she did, she would break from his gentleness, his compassion!

"_Christine_."

The tears flowed faster now. Then faster.

"_Christine_!"

Surprised, she looked up at him, and saw that his eyes were lit with fury. Fury she could handle. Fury she was used to. She swallowed back the emotion, sniffed back the tears.

His jaw was hard, his fists clenched. With deliberate precision, he took the handkerchief from his pocket and held it to her nose.

"_Blow_."

She complied, the tide of tears lessening with every acerbic word he uttered. Every short-tempered action he made. She met his narrow-eyed stare once more as he made a production of wiping the last of her tears away.

He met her stare sternly, the flesh-colored mask lending him a normal, natural appearance. If she let her eyes un-focus, she could imagine he was—

"You _cannot_ talk, Christine!"

She was yanked from her reverie by his words, and mentally chastising herself, she forced her thoughts into strict focus as she listened.

"…and for now Erik considers this a blessing. But you _can_ listen, and you will heed his every word."

Instead of talking, however, he unrolled the neatly folded napkin he had brought and draped it across her chemise-clad chest. With precise movements, he measured out a spoonful of broth and then once more, his eyes met hers.

Christine could sense the tension he was holding in his jaw; he was livid! "On a voiceless 'Ah', Mademoiselle Daae."

Christine complied automatically, the words and tone drilled into her since girlhood. He held the spoon steadily to her lips, feeding her the broth.

She swallowed and licked her lips.

To Christine, it was the best meal she had ever tasted!

"Again.", he instructed her, and again she unthinkingly complied, realizing as she was doing so that he had automatically assumed the role of her Angel, her stern protector once more, and she his sometimes wayward charge.

She felt gratified, she felt comforted.

She felt dread settle like a stone in the pit of her stomach. For if he was her Angel, her ever-distant, celestial being, then how—_how_ was she ever to get to know him as a friend?

He fed her the last of the broth, and Christine looked down hopefully at the empty bowl.

This did not escape his notice.

If anything the tightness in his jaw increased ten-fold. "You are malnourished and very underweight, Christine. To feed you too much now will make you even more ill than you already are." His eyes held a banked fire in them, a seriousness that served to underscore his words. "You need to rebuild your strength, and yes, your intestinal fortitude. And you must do so slowly. And so, you have been and shall be dining on broth for the next few days while your body adjusts and absorbs the nutrients therein."

Almost as if on cue, Christine's stomach muscles started to cramp and seize. Her hands clenched weakly at her side as her face burned. If _she_ could hear her stomach making noises, she knew her _Ange_—_Erik_ could as well.

He picked up the tea, an infusion she recognized of willow bark and ginseng that he had long since given her to see her through times of illness, and he held it patiently to her lips for her to drink.

She did so, her gaze meeting his and then skittering away, but the tea was as familiar as it was comforting. And her stomach upset quieted almost immediately as did the raw and aching feeling in her throat.

Still, he slowly, patiently lowered and lifted the cup for her to drink until it too was finished. And then gently, and unnecessarily to her way of thinking, he dabbed her mouth with the corner of the napkin he had brought.

He had never once spilled a drop.

Christine decided to test her voice. "Than—"

"_DON'T EVEN TRY IT_!" He roared, interrupting her, and causing her to gasp, jerking back against the pillows.

And just like that, her _Angel_ had become the _Phantom_.

He gestured violently with his gloved hand between them. "What did Erik just tell his Christine? _What?_ He told her to _listen_. _TO LISTEN!_ That was all Christine had to do. That and be fed.

"But no! His little Pandora is trying to break her voice box!" He rose abruptly from the bed taking the tray with him and turning his back on her. "That is _if_ she hasn't already." He muttered the last so quietly, with such razor-edged bitterness, that it drew tears to her eyes.

She gulped back the emotion, feeling the tingle in her chest start once more that usually presaged the beginnings of a coughing fit.

He sat the tray down with a clattering force, and Christine jumped, the coughing she was trying so hard to hold in, breaking away from her in earnest.

Her arms were heavy, useless things at her sides; still, she tried to move her hand to her chest to rub the ache, wishing that she could claw through the tingle as well.

On she coughed, and with every cough, sheer agony.

"Lay back, Christine." He commanded.

In no position to argue, Christine complied, her eyes shut tight as she tried to stop the coughing spasm and the pain. "Inhale on a count of one. One. Exhale forcefully on a count of two. One and Two. Wait two beats, and then repeat." His Voice was calm; it was expectant.

Christine was growing dizzy from the coughing and his shifts in mood. Now he was back to being her _Ange_—her gentle tutor and protector.

She did the best she could to follow his instruction, but she really wasn't having very much success.

She felt the bed dip once more, and then his hands were on her shoulders, forcing her to lie back from the involuntary bow the cough was forcing her body into. "Breathe in on one and then out percussively on two. Christine." he intoned.

His hands left her shoulders as he continued to count for her, and this worked better, but still—

Her eyes flew open wide as the chilled air of the room reached her now exposed upper chest. The ties of her chemise had been loosened without her knowledge. She looked at him, panic-stricken, losing count.

The coughing spasm returned full-force.

He met her stare but did not explain. Instead he touched her chest with his hands—hands devoid of gloves—and began a gentle, rhythmic message.

Instantly, her skin began to tingle and burn coolly where he touched her, the soothing salve he was working into her skin a balm. "Mind your count, Christine." His gentle chastisement had her focusing her breathing once again as his calm, soothing hands distracted her from the pain.

She breathed in, and her nose, throat, and lungs were instantly filled with the cool tingling, the mentholated smell of the salve he was using. Another few breaths, and her coughing had eased considerably.

Yet still he w the salve into her skin, gently working it into the skin of her throat and ending at the area just between her breasts.

Gradually, Christine's breathing returned to normal, and she was able to observe him as he worked over her. His concentration was so exact, so focused on what he was doing; she felt a fluttering tingling feeling begin in her abdomen that had absolutely nothing to do with the salve, and she blushed all the way down to the middle of her exposed chest.

"Er—" She broke off the word before he could yell at her, shutting her eyes tight, already flinching from the reprimand she knew was coming.

The methodic, mentholated massage stopped.

And feeling a tug, she opened one eye, only just realizing her chemise was tied modestly at the neck once more.

She waited for him to say something…to do something for _she_ had no idea what to sa—errm… _do_.

He apparently read the question in her eyes and knew exactly where to go from here for he leaned towards her until his eyes were on the level with hers, until she could feel his moist breath against her lips as he stared at her unblinking.

She swallowed thickly, whetting her lips in the process. _Was he going to—?_

He bellowed, "**RULE NUMBER ONE, CHRISTINE: **_**YOU ARE NOT TO SPEAK, NOT TO UTTER A SOUND UNLESS ERIK HAS GIVEN HIS EXPRESS PERMISSION**_!" His razor-edged words cut across her ears like knives, imprinting themselves on her skull!

He waited a moment for his words to sink in.

Eyes wide, she gulped, not daring to blink.

"Does Erik's Christine understand the gravity of rule number one?" His tone dared her to say otherwise.

Pursing her lips together, she nodded, her head fell back against the pillows wearily.

"_Good_!" His eyes flashed fire. "Erik says you've earned a nap. And after your nap, Erik and Christine shall repeat this entire process over again save your lapses in vocal use, _yes_?"

Already closing eyelids that were suddenly impossible to keep open, she nodded again and felt her hands lifted and tucked once more beneath the quilt.

In that land, that special twilight between waking and sleeping, she thought she felt cool lips press softly, gently against her cheek. She could have sworn she heard a voice whisper quietly to her.

But then again… it could have all just been a dream.

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_**A/N:**_ Remember 60 reviews does today another chapter grant…

_**DGM**_

_**please review. It means the world to this authoress and all feedback is appreciated.**_


	10. Hell Bent

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_**A/N:**_ WOW! over 1,881 views to this story! And nearly to my goal of 60 reviews! I thank each one of you for reading my story!

Now here you are, dear readers, as promised…

_**DGM**_

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Part X: Hell-bent

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The novelty of Christine's embarrassment at being bared before Erik quickly grew to be a thing of the past. Morning, noon, and night, he fed her, administered medicine, and then massaged salve into her chest.

And when he wasn't doing these things, he was massaging her muscles grown weak and entropic from poor nutrition, illness, and disuse, reading to her…bathing her.

Christine had realized the morning of her second day of consciousness that Erik had been the one to provide all of her care.

It was only the two of them here: Erik and the Persian man. And Erik had trusted her care to no one, not even the Persian. He would, of course, be with her when Erik couldn't, and the only time Christine was alone was when she was using the bed pan. Every other minute she spent, either waking or sleeping, had been in the presence of the Persian or Erik himself.

Upon realizing that Erik had been the one to get her so clean, to pamper her poor broken body and care for her, Christine was at once humiliated and humbled. And yet, the things he did for her, she could not do for herself. Even after three days of consciousness, she still had trouble staying awake for longer periods than fifteen minutes at a stretch.

"And how is Mademoiselle faring today?"

Christine smiled weakly as she watched the Persian man come in with a book written in some strange, ornamental language with loops and lines. The writing looked to be very pretty. "I am told to tell you that Erik has been called away at present; that he apologizes for the disruption in routine and will be back as soon as he's able."

Christine bit her lip and looked at him curiously, and the man smiled, his eyes fanning at the corners in their merriment. "In short, Mademoiselle, he'll be back in a few minutes; he's gone to the apothecary to procure more liniment."

She smiled a bit ruefully, and settled down to wait. The Persian man began to read his book and Christine passed the time in quiet contemplation.

The word _draconian_ fit Erik's protection and care of her aptly. His words, when he did speak to her were severe, terse orders not to be disobeyed. And yet, his actions, his every touch of her body was in purposeful, reverent care.

And Christine had been deprived of such attention _just_ long enough to realize how rare a gift that truly was.

In this time spent alone with the Persian, she wished she could question him about how he knew Erik, perhaps gain further insight into who he was. Not to mention, she would really like her questions answered about how they found her, how they rescued her, where they were…

She needed a pen and some paper… desperately.

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Erik watched as the dust motes flitted and danced in the afternoon sun, its rays adding warmth to the bed upon which Christine slept.

Three weeks.

It had been three weeks to the day since he had almost lost her. Three weeks of little sleep and wire-taut nerves. Three weeks of worry and constant vigilance in seeing that her fever and lung infection did not return. Three weeks of round-the-clock personal care of her, seeing her bathed and fed. Preparing and administering each of her medicines.

He had never felt filled with such a sense of purpose. He had never felt such an amazing outpouring of love.

He had never felt such a sense of impotent anger at whoever or whatever was responsible at doing this to her!

He thought back to her first waking moments. How she had looked so pleased, so content to be resting in a bed, in a clean bed, and his eyes prickled.

He quickly rubbed the feeling away. His gentleness had made him feel weak, made him remember how he almost lost her.

His gentleness had made her cry.

And now that he was reasonably certain the crisis had passed, that she was finally on the mend, his mind became clouded with questions, with doubts, and worries.

How on Earth had she ended up where she had? And in such a dire state?

His mind kept journeying down darker and darker roads, imagining worse and worse scenarios. For Erik had seen the worst of humanity. The prison guard had spoken of her being a diseased whore turned in for thievery. Erik didn't believe the charges of thievery, not for one moment, but…

Her state! The state she was in! She had been malnourished and starving for months! Her clothes were the clothed rags of a prostitute.

And filth!

She was covered in filth even though Erik knew how fastidious she was in cleanliness, in her personal hygiene and care. When he bathed her that first time after she had almost died, he first had to change the rinse water twice before it ran clear enough for him to wash her satisfactorily.

And even twice more after that when he was washing her hair, her once lovely hair that now hung limp, dull, and ragged on her emaciated frame.

He was very thankful that she had been kept separate from the general population while in the prison, or he would have had to delouse her as well.

The more he thought about it, the more upset and frightened he became.

He needed answers… and soon.

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Christine awoke to the sound of Erik bringing in her dinner. She looked up hopefully at the tray he held, and she could have sworn his lips twitched slightly when he placed it before her.

"The Daroga believes you can now tolerate a thicker broth. Erik, however, still has his reservations." He removed the lid and Christine smiled in delight, clapping her hands softly to see a creamy chicken broth placed before her.

She picked up the spoon excitedly.

He removed it just as quickly and rapped her knuckles lightly in gentle censure. "Nuh-uh-uh. Erik is to feed Christine this meal."

She looked up at him, a question in her eyes.

The bed dipped as he once again sat before her. Stirring the broth, he stated, "Knowing his little Pandora as he does, she will glut herself in her haste and then regret it much at her leisure."

She grew embarrassed for all of one moment, but then she opened her mouth obediently at his prompting and closed her eyes in sheer enjoyment.

She only just refrained from smacking her lips in appreciation!

It was warm, thick, and creamy perfection as it traveled down her throat, soothing in its heat. She swallowed and opening her eyes, met his stare.

She gulped.

There was a measure of something in his gaze that had her blushing; a note of something in his Voice when next he spoke.

"Again?"

She nodded and opened up her mouth once more, a little more unsure this time, wrapping her lips around the spoon he held.

There was a tension now, a subtle shift in awareness that had not been present before. He was feeding her slowly, carefully as always, and yet…

He fed her the last of the hearty broth, and then rose. "Now we wait to see if your stomach will tolerate it. If so, you can expect more solid foods from now on."

She smiled softly, but the moment had somewhat lost its joy for her. He had his back turned away from her and was busy preparing the medicines he had been giving her to ingest.

She rapped her knuckles on the bedside table to get his attention.

He turned, and she made a writing motion with her hand. Already she could feel herself tiring out once again, but she had to know a few things first before she sought her rest.

One by one, he administered the medicines; starting first with the most foul-tasting, and ending with the willow bark ginseng tea that he had taken to sweetening with a little bit of honey, just as he knew she liked.

_Thoughtfulness_.

His very thoughtfulness and care of her. She had been such a fool to treat them lightly. She had been such a fool!

She felt herself tearing up once more, but averted her eyes before he saw her cry. For some reason, her tears seemed to make him angry. And she didn't want him angry at her.

Not tonight.

When she was reasonably certain she wouldn't cry, she reached for and caught his hand, stopping his motions of preparing the scented water for her bath. She looked into his eyes, and again motioned she would like to a pen and paper.

He frowned down at her, "Perhaps after your bath, Christine. If you still have the energy to do so, that is." Again, he turned his attention away from her.

Narrowing her eyes, she reached for him again.

"_Christine_." He growled in warning.

She rapped three times on the table—hard! And narrowed her eyes at him.

He turned to her, his own stare filled with fury. "If there is one trait you have, Pandora, besides your lethal curiosity, it is your penchant for stubborn impatience. Erik said after your bath, Christine, and not a moment before. _Now lie back_."

Gritting her jaw, Christine complied. But whereas she usually closed her eyes at this point in his care of her, this time her eyes stayed open as she stared him down.

He ignored her.

And as with everything he did, he was meticulous, and quite had bathing her, too, down to a fine art.

She was always modestly covered; a fact which she never quite appreciated before now, now that she was watching the Master Magician work. He began, as always, by methodically, washing her face, lathering it with a thick, creamy soap, and then gently rinsing it with a cloth and dabbing it dry.

With surgical precision and lightening speed, he quickly had her chemise unfastened and removed, and a fresh linen sheet draped over her now nude form.

In fact, she had barely felt him remove it, how quickly and deftly his hands worked. And then he was washing her neck in gentle, smooth strokes designed as much to massage as to cleanse. Christine realized there was a method to this. He would lather, rinse, and then dry each individual part of her. It was time consuming, as he was protecting as much of her modesty as he was able, but he did this—_for_ _her_.

She swallowed thickly, and his hands lost their concentration, his eyes lifted, meeting hers. He paused, but then continued on undeterred, still meeting her stare.

He folded back one quarter of the sheet, exposing her left breast to view.

His eyes never left hers.

And yet every inch exposed was methodically washed, rinsed, and dried. He turned her so that she was on her side, her arms and the sheet still shielding her upper half and most of her lower half from view. He began to work lather into her upper back, washing and massaging the lather onto her arm and hand as well.

Still his eyes held hers steadily.

Christine's gaze softened, and suddenly the hands that were caring for her stilled.

She looked away as tears once more threatened. His caring of her continued, but Christine could have sworn there was a trembling in his hands as he continued to do so. And to her slight embarrassment, gooseflesh began to appear wherever he touched.

And wherever he touched, her skin burned.

Again, he had to pause in his ministrations. This time, she knew his hands were trembling as she could feel them where they rested, mid-rinse, at her exposed hip, and she thought she heard a small groan escape him.

But then his hands, which had up until now shown her such gentle, reverent care, began quick, hurried strokes, designed for speed and efficiency more than… …well, pleasure or enjoyment.

And Christine found she didn't like the change, not at all.

With methodical detachment and lightening precision, he finished the rest of her bath and dressed her in record time and then abruptly, he left the room.

And she was left wondering what it was she had done that had caused such a change to come over him.

Only silence answered her.

Weighty, oppressive silence.

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She looked down at the stationary.

It had appeared in her room over night; a tray placed beside her with fountain pen, paper and a bell. The Persian man had brought her her breakfast of thin, if palatable oatmeal.

She had yet to see Erik.

She could now pull herself up from the bed and make her way over to the chamber pot. This was a big deal when she had been used to the humiliation of having to use a bedpan for Erik to clean up after.

Erik. She owed him so much! And time and again, he kept saving her. And time and again, she just kept spitting in his face.

She didn't deserve him; she didn't!

Slowly making her way back towards the bed, she once again contemplated the stationary.

The first words after her illness; the first words she had written in a long time… what felt like a lifetime in many ways.

She looked down at the stationary. And only one question—one _word_ came to mind for her to write.

Feeling sleep coming fast on the heels of her breakfast and turn across the room, she wrote the word and left it folded for him on the bedside table.

Wearily, she closed her eyes.

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_Why?_

Erik looked down at the note.

_Why?_

He couldn't believe what she had written.

_Why?_

This was the most important word, the most important question she had to ask of him?!

His eyes closed tight as he balled the note unintentionally in his fist. Stooping, he carefully removed the tray from her lap, and settling himself in the chair near her bed, watched her sleep.

Why his Christine was so hell-bent in not believing his love for her, he had no idea. Why, indeed.

Oh, he knew the nature of what she asked. Why did he choose to look after her instead of leaving her there to suffer and die? Why, when she chose to stubbornly go her own way, and then totally muck it up, did he still choose to save her?

Why?

Erik studied her and words to a musical piece he had been working on before this mess suddenly came to him.

Gathering stationary and pen, he set them to music.

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_**A/N**_: The authoress would like to cast a vote; that is if you guys are up to the challenge? Many of you have expressed concern in how Erik is going to address the problem of Gasparo and the mirror box... He is a wicked one, is Gasparo, and he deserves his just desserts. So, in that spirit, I would like to know, would you, dear reader, prefer for Gasparo to die creatively by Erik's hand OR would you like to see him live out the rest of his life in Erik-style torment.

My muse awaits your verdict.

Thank you,

_**DGM**_


	11. Hell the Prison House of Despair

Part XI: Hell the Prison House of Despair

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"The mind is its own place and in itself, can make a Heaven of Hell, a Hell of Heaven." –John Milton

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Christine awoke to the smells of eggs and toast.

Gingerly, she sat up and watched as Erik put the tray across her lap.

There were times when she still felt as weak as a newborn kitten, but she could tell her body was gaining in strength. And just last night, she was served a delicious supper of vegetable beef stew. _And_ Erik even allowed her to feed herself… under his strict supervision of course.

Again, he sat in the chair facing her and again he watched her eat with a gimlet eye.

Her lips twitching, she cut a small piece of egg and unhurriedly ate it.

He nodded and sat back, his demeanor still stern. "Not that you have written them, Pandora, but Erik imagines that you have a great many questions you would like to ask. Is that so?"

Setting down her knife and fork, she bit her lip.

The night of _The Bath_ had made a marked change in her.

Ever since it occurred to her just how much Erik had cared for her, what he did for her, she found herself growing more and more discontent in her past thoughts and actions towards him.

His small lecture about her stubbornness and impatience curtailed many of the questions she wanted to ask. In fact, since he had brought the stationary to her, she had yet to use it again, nor the bell. The last thing she wanted to be was an inconvenience to him and pepper him with questions, summoning him by bell as if he were a servant at her beck and call.

The thought made her nauseous.

Besides, what did any of her questions matter now?

Erik was here, she was safe, and she just wanted to forget.

Forget and move on.

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Now this was curious.

Erik was offering his Christine a chance for information. He was offering her the chance to get her questions—all of them if she liked— answered. His eyes narrowed. "Do you even have any questions you want to ask, my Pandora?"

She looked unsure for a moment, but then shook her head.

He watched as she set down her breakfast half-finished and pushed it away.

His jaw tensed. "Take back up your fork, Christine, and finish your breakfast."

Reluctantly, she shook her head and gestured to her stomach.

Rising, Erik went over to her, and reached to examine her, but she gestured for him to stop, moving away from him.

Again, he studied her through narrowed eyes.

She looked at him sadly, and Erik's narrow-eyed expression morphed into confusion. What could his Pandora be thinking now?

She mimed the need for sleep, and Erik backed away.

He knew her body's rhythms, after watching her, he knew her body's every need; hadn't he been observing them for years, taking care of them for weeks? "You still need to use the facilities, Christine. I had thought to try a bit of a walk to and from the lavatory today. You need to begin rebuilding your muscular strength."

At first, she looked hopeful, but then her shoulders drooped.

_Later_, she mouthed, _I'm tired_.

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_Why?_

Erik had chosen to ignore her question. The only question she had deigned to ask. Talk of his enduring love for her had only gotten him so far, and it always seemed to drive her away more than endear him to her.

And so, he had ignored the note. And yet, in the week since she had asked that question, it seemed his Christine had taken a backward turn.

She slept more throughout the day instead of less. She began eating less and less even though Erik was adding more and more variety and complexity to her diet. He even played her the new composition he had made in her honor.

She had smiled her sad smile, the only smile he could get from her of late, and then gestured that she needed to rest.

Things were not progressing as they should. And somehow he knew he was losing her, slowly. Incrementally.

He was losing her…to herself.

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"It's time to rise, Christine. You are to break your fast with the daroga and Erik this morning." Erik watched carefully as the pile of covers moved but only slightly.

"Christine. You need to rise. _This is not a request_." Erik used the power of his Voice to make certain she heard every word.

Still no reaction.

Her behavior was inexplicable, unless…

He sat heavily on her side of the bed, and placed a gentle hand on her covered shoulder.

She changed position, and his hand slid away…away from her.

"Christine…"

No response.

"You still have not told Erik what happened to you, my dear."

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Gentleness. He was offering her his gentleness once more, and she—she didn't know if she would be able to handle it!

Her mind had been over and over her failures in Rome…in Paris. Over and over her failures. She had lost herself in them, in quiet contemplation of them. And how she loathed herself.

Hated herself!

Her first time truly alone, and she—well, she didn't quite know what to call the experience. She didn't quite know what to think or even how to even explain it to him.

And she couldn't understand why Erik was there with her; why he _still_ was with her. Why he chose her? Why he chose to still care for her?! For surely, surely after everything she'd been through, everything she put _him_ through, she was undeserving of his attentions, of his love.

She gasped as two arms came around her and lifted, drawing her blanket and all from the bed.

Erik turned her until she was facing him, and swaddled like a babe, he set with her in his arms in the chair by the window.

She closed her eyes, as unused to the sun as she'd become, but grateful, she absorbed its brightness, its warmth.

And she leaned her head against his chest, hearing his strong heart beat percussively against her ear.

"Are you going to tell Erik, Christine?"

Opening her eyes, she looked up at him and quirked a corner of her mouth up. She pointed to him and then gestured to her throat, shaking her head.

He returned her slight smile with one of his own. "Touché, mademoiselle." he whispered, drawing her closer to him so that his cheek rested near her hair. He let the silence settle between them, and Christine once more closed her eyes to bask in the rays of the sun that seemed to be both warming her inside and out.

Only a thought occurred to her, and they flew open again as she looked at him and then out at the sun-lit afternoon.

She looked back at him a question in her eyes.

"Ah, now Erik's Pandora has a question. What is it and make it good." he mumbled in her hair.

Pulling back, she gestured to the window, and then biting her lip uncertainly, pointed to his mask. The hands holding her tensed minutely, and Christine saw his jaw harden a little.

She shut her eyes tight; she never should have mentioned it! Always wrong. Always a prying Pandoric failure!—

"Shall Erik tell Christine how he made this mask?"

Her eyes flew open once more as did her mouth.

He shifted her weight, and then his finger was coming towards her face and drawing up her chin. A corner of his mouth lifted, "Erik's Christine makes for a very charming fish when she's surprised."

His hand remained caressing her cheek.

"It is made out of India rubber."

He reached for her hand and slowly brought it to his mask—to his face. "Erik had been working for years to find the right texture, the right balance between the sulphuric compound needed to lessen the stickiness of the rubber and the many additives Erik had to create to make it feel and look like natural human skin."

Cautiously, he allowed her to touch the mask, and Christine's fingers explored as her eyes feasted. He had even gone so far as to add minute imperfections, wrinkles and fan lines around the eyes, a few spots and freckles, and even eyebrows in order to give it authenticity. If Christine looked closely, she could see the seam, but only _just_, and only because she was looking for it.

The mask fitted so tightly against his real skin that she almost couldn't tell where one began and the other ended. Her fingertips glided from his mask to that of his real skin, and other than a slight change in temperature, she couldn't feel a difference. Her finger stumbled upon the seam, and she saw his eyes widen briefly in fear.

But she had learned her lesson there too, had she not?

And so, she held her hand there, feeling the line between mask and skin, watching him carefully as he most assuredly watched her.

And she felt him relax, felt his chest release the pent up breath it had been holding.

And Christine smiled…she smiled fully up at him and held his masked face. And once more, she closed her eyes to bask in the rays of the sun.

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"Alright, Christine. If you cannot vocalize to Erik what occurred, you can write it. The time for answers is come."

She looked up from her thoughts to find Erik seated beside her on the bed, a mound of stationary and the pen placed on the tray in her lap. She hadn't even heard him come in as lost in her thoughts as she had been.

She shook her head and pushed the tray away.

Narrowing his eyes, Erik brought it back to her and pointed. "Erik wants answers now, Christine! What happened to you? Who did this to you? For when Erik finds these things out, Erik is going to become Christine's _Angel of Vengeance_. Now, write!"

And he went so far as to place the pen in her hand, and hover over her.

In the heavy-handedness of his command, Christine grew incensed. How dare the man?! She gripped the pen tightly wanting to hurl tray and all across the room!

What he was asking was personal—very personal!

And at this moment, she couldn't even begin to wrap her head around where she had been or even how she had arrived there. Besides, as if he was some open book himself?! If the tables were turned, she knew he wouldn't have stood for this type of behavior, so why should she?

She just wanted to forget! Forget that it ever happened!

But then an idea came to her; it was a charmingly sweet, funny, and light idea; one that just might help chase away the demons plaguing her.

And so Christine began to write…

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Erik was hovering.

Erik knew he was hovering. But damn the woman! He needed answers and quickly. They could not stay in Tuscany indefinitely. The daroga had just spotted a few of Lazarro's men loitering in the village, and that was a passel of trouble he wanted his little Pandora nowhere near.

He waited anxiously beside her as she wrote; his eyes narrowing in curiosity when he would see her smile, the pen she was holding tapping gently on her bottom lip when she was deep in thought.

Her bottom lip… he needed to stop staring at it… Erik drew a deep breath to calm the wayward emotion filling him.

Mon Dieu! But she was beautiful. Even as bedraggled and half-starved as she was. As pale and in need of sunshine and laughter as he knew her spirit required.

She was beautiful.

Finally, she finished a page, and Erik reached for it, but a sharp rap on his knuckles had the page drifting to the bed once more.

He looked down at her perplexed.

She just shook her head and smiled. A real smile! A genuine, Christine Daae stunner that had his heart beating triple-time within his chest.

And her eyes were bright with excitement and her cheeks flushed with the rosy-hue of discovery...

His eyes narrowed.

He waited until she had returned to her writing, and then quicker than the eye could see, Erik had snatched the page off the bed, and was leaving an engrossed Christine behind, none-the-wiser of his deed.

Taking the page to the hallway, he quietly shut the door to her room and began to read.

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_**A/N:**_ Thank you all for your input regarding Gasparo's punishment! So far, it's a mixed bag of 'death's too good for him' and 'death by a thousand cuts'…you can possibly see a future chapter title in there …if you squint…

The authoress promises you she really was going to write that scene today, but a pesky little love scene got in the way… and I do so love it when that happens!

Also, please note, I do try to keep things as historically accurate as possible. The making of Erik's mask is feasible through the process of Vulcanization- a process just invented/discovered/refined by Charles Goodyear in the mid 1800's—yep, _that_ Goodyear.

Also, I thought it believable that Christine would suffer from depression after her ordeal. After all, she was depressed throughout it, and those thought patterns, once they are established, don't just go away.

And so, keep me posted on what you think of my little tale. I do so like to hear from you! And as an aside, if you're not signed in, I cannot reply back to you, and oh, how I do enjoy replying back! :D

Your servant,

_**DGM**_


	12. The Devil's in the Details

Part XII: The Devil's in the Details

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"_The Ogre & the Dryad Queen" by Christine Daae_

_Once upon a time in a Kingdom of many oaks lived a Dryad Queen. _

_Fare and beautiful. Kind and Just. She ruled o'er her Oaken kingdom graciously, and all of her kingdom's subjects loved and adored her. _

_The Dryad Queen had made her home in the most ancient and grand of Oak trees. And as such, she knew its every hollow, its every notch and knob. And when new leaves would grow, she would come personally to congratulate each of the branches on their success in producing such brilliantly-hued and verdant creations. _

_And when each died, as surely they must, she mourned with them, feeling their sadness as if it was her own. _

_Day after day. Season after season, the Dryad Queen did rule: settling disputes amongst her subjects, counseling treaties between neighboring forests, negotiating with the squirrels in their arrangement to bury more acorns further afield so more mighty oaks could grow._

_And the day came when the Dryad Queen wearied of her position, tired of her subjects' adoration. After all, it had always been there, so too would it always be. Nothing changed in her oaken kingdom._

_And the Dryad Queen craved adventure. _

_She wanted a life free from the responsibility of being Queen. _

_She wanted freedom. _

_And so she flew. _

_Against the advice of the Sages. Against the warnings spoken by the wind that carried her far, far away from the Mighty Oak that had nurtured and protected her so. Far, far away from the love and adoration of her loving subjects. _

_Far, far away from everything that was at once familiar and home. _

_And when she could not fly any more. When her wings were too heavy to possibly lift another beat, and the wind grown silent and still in its cautionary rebuke, she glided down and landed softly on the branch of a strange oak tree. _

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_._

Absorbed, Erik re-entered the room and replaced the page he had completed and picked up the others that were finished, not even bothering to hide his deed.

He sat down in the chair by the window and continued to read.

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"_Who goes there?" _

_The Dryad Queen smiled and shifted her tired wings slightly to see who had addressed her. She looked down. _

_It was an Ogre, an unfamiliar one to be sure, but one just the same. And she was on good terms with the Ogres of her kingdom, gifting them with much of the acorn harvest in exchange for the protection and nurturing of her trees. "It is I, the Dryad Queen, here to rest before I continue my journey onward."_

_The Ogre smiled at her charmingly, "You have indeed come a long way, Lady Queen. Won't you stop and rest here awhile with me before you journey again?" _

_The Dryad Queen looked at him gratefully, and floating down from the branch of the oak, perched delicately on the Ogre's shoulder. _

_He laughed, "Oh, but you are small, too small by half for me to feed you. If I tried serving you a portion of dew, my Lady, you would surely drown. Can you not make yourself bigger, Lady, so that you do not worry me and drown?"_

_Hating to be such a bother to him—he the Ogre that was showing her such kindness— the Dryad Queen stepped lightly from his shoulder to the forest floor. With a thought, she was as big as he—well, perhaps not as big—but infinitely bigger than she had been. Big enough to sit at his table and not have him worry of her drowning. _

_He eyed her skeptically. "hmm, yes,. Thas is better. But your wings, Lady. They are now so big, so cumbersome. Can you not somehow fold them away or get rid of them?"_

_The Dryad Queen bit her lip and looked back at her beautiful and iridescent wings. She caressed one against her cheek feeling its soft, cool texture a familiar comfort. _

…_but he was being so kind to her. Offering her shelter and food. A measure of friendship when she was far, far away from everything familiar, from everything home. _

_With a thought, they were shed. _

_She watched sadly as the last iridescent wing fluttered to the ground on a sigh of wind, and then the Ogre was placing a jeweled necklace around her neck. _

_She looked up at him uncomprehending. _

_He smiled, and she drew back from the evil found in such a smile. "You are mine, Lady. I own you. From here until the end of time." And shoving her in front of him, the ogre led the once Dryad Queen to his Cottage-Castle Deep._

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Erik finished the last of the pages he had taken to find Christine still putting pen to paper. He knew that particular gleam in her eyes. The gleam of mania…of obsession…_of creation_. Didn't he look just that way when he was composing? How strange to watch it take place in another—in his Christine.

For many minutes he watched her as she wrote, her frenzy almost an exorcism of the demons that had been plaguing her. And from her whimsical work, a picture began to form in Erik's mind.

His Christine had been horribly taken advantage of, abused, and enslaved somehow through her own making. At least, if the subtext Erik read in her writings could be trusted. His little Pandora was painting a terrifying tale of extortion and trickery… and Erik, he had to find some way to reach her…

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The pen Christine had been using mysteriously ran dry and then refilled itself all without her noticing. The sheaf of paper she was using to write seemed bottomless in its quantity.

In reality, of course, Erik had been scouring the villa for each and every blank piece of stationary he could find. When he noticed her pen running dry, he had deftly taken it from her ink-stained fingertips and seamlessly swapped _his_ with the daroga's.

She hadn't even blinked.

On she continued to write from evening until the wee hours of morning. And even then, she only paused to break her fast when Erik insisted, virtually feeding her tea and toast while she continued to plot…to create.

And in the afternoon. When her eyes were dim and bleary from too little sleep and too much thought, when her head was as empty and her heart as feather-light from the purge of emotion and creation, when she had finally put her story to bed, so too went a very exhausted Christine.

Erik took the sheaf of paper with him down to the kitchen where the daroga was currently overseeing dinner.

"And so she is done, my friend?"

"Yes. She only just finished." The daroga nodded and set a bowl before him which Erik promptly shoved away.

"You'll be a poor example to her, if she sees you do that."

Erik gave him a withering stare. He pointed to the papers. "Try eating after reading that, daroga, and see where it gets you."

So saying, Erik left the daroga to it, and went to find solace in his music.

Enslaved.

She had been enslaved. For five and half months, she had been one man's goose that had given him golden eggs.

The anger Erik felt was palpable, and he quickly put down his violin and bow lest he break them.

Memories surfaced. Memories of his own wanderlust and where it had gotten him. Memories of a cage, of bars, of starvation, degradation, illness, and death—_not his own_.

The one thing her work had not featured prominently was abuse: at least not sexual or physical. And although Erik could not rule it out as a possibility, he believed that had the experiences occurred, Christine would have written of it, at least obliquely.

The degree this man suffered before his impending death depended greatly on whether or not he _had_ abused her. His emotional abuse and extortion of her was enough for Erik to send the thus-far nameless, faceless man into the Mirror Chamber _without_ the courtesy of a noose.

God help the man if he had—

"Erik!"

Snapping to attention, Erik turned his head to face the daroga.

"Do you not hear her, Erik?" She's been calling to you—crying for you."

Erik turned his head to the side, and as if on cue a wail the likes of which he had never heard pierced the silence.

He ran.

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Christine was caught in a nightmare world of grasping hands and macabre faces. Everywhere she looked, were demons with burning eyes and greedy claws, demanding that she give to them more, give them everything, give them her all!

Her one saving grace had been the mask-less man with the kind eyes set in the face of a demon's. She reached for _him_, reached for him amidst the others that sought to take from her—take all she had to give.

And when she couldn't reach him in time, she yelled—

Screaming.

"Shh-shh, Erik is here, Christine. Erik is here."

She jolted awake to the feeling of arms surrounding her. Trembling, she let them soothe and comfort her, even going so far as to crawl higher into his hold so that her face could bury in his neck.

Erik.

And he was in her bed. She let the trembling run its course as she recalled what had made him come into her room in the first place.

A nightmare—a nightmare about the restaurant.

She had written, purging it all on paper. She had written until she couldn't write any more, until she was empty of words. And then, she had slept, and in sleeping attained peace.

That was until the nightmare.

Her eyes felt scratchy and bleary. She was covered in a film of sweat. Her throat parched. And her voice…

Her eyes widened. She had used her voice. She had used her voice! She had been unconscious, but she had disobeyed Erik and used her voice.

And…her voice was back! And now…

"Erik can see your mind churning, Christine. What is it you are thinking?"

She bit her lip.

But moving one of his hands from around her, he caressed her bottom lip gently with his thumb.

She released it with a pop, and he massaged the ill-treated spot with the pad of his finger.

"Christine. Answer Erik."

She continued to look at him, a mixture of fear and uncertainty in her eyes.

His eyes widened in realization, "Mon Dieu, woman! Erik gives his Christine permission to speak freely!"

She drew a deep breath, and then gushed, "Good!BecausesincenowIcanspeak, ,thankyou,thankyou!formyrescueandforyoutakingcareofmethroughmyillness,andforyoubeingthereformeandforyoubeingso,soincrediblyunderstandingandwell…" Christine hugged him tightly to her, and when that wasn't enough, she raised herself up and kissed him full-on his gob smacked mouth.

She ended the kiss with a pop and then pulled back smiling brightly.

She waited. … …

And waited… …

and waited…"Erik?"

Christine didn't think he had moved since she began speaking. He was so still!

Quickly, she put a hand to his heart to feel for its beat. Was he dead? Did her kiss kill him?!

His hand shot up, covering hers. His eyes snapped to as he gruffly replied, "Could you try that again, Mademoiselle Daae? In _decelerando_, if you please?"

She smiled up at him, and drew breath to once more repeat her words.

He stopped her with a finger to her lips, and shook his head. "No, no, no. Christine! Not the _words_. Erik caught them all. Erik was speaking of _the kiss_."

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_**A/N:**_ What did you think, dear reader, of Christine's manifestation of her experience? Will it be enough, you think, to satisfy our phantom's curiosity? Should he pursue it with phantom-like zeal, or perhaps, approach the topic more delicately as one would approach a lover?

Do let this unassuming authoress know your take on the matter.

As an aside, I want to thank you each of you personally for taking the time to review (so sign in if you haven't already! ;) Your words and criticism do mean much to me and my creative endeavoring!

_**DGM**_


	13. The Devil's not so Black as He's Painted

Part XIII: The Devil's not so Black as He is Painted

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She had kissed him! She had kissed Erik!

And Erik, he had kissed her back!

"Come here, my Christine." he had breathed. And that was the only warning she got before he drew her in his arms and proceeded to take her breath away.

She had never been kissed like that before!

Raoul's kisses were gentle, reverent things. She was used to gentle, reverent things.

She was not used to feeling the trembling fire, the…_wanting_ that came when she felt the measure of Erik's kiss, his…desire for her.

He broke away and clutched her to him.

Christine could only limply hang on, her blood still humming, her pulse pounding timpani in her ears. She inhaled his scent, and if anything this excited her more.

Frightened more of herself than of him, she pulled slightly away and looked up at him—wide-eyed.

He studied her carefully, "But Erik has surprised his Christine. She must speak so that Erik knows she is alright."

She felt her kiss-swollen lips with a trembling hand, "I—I'm good. …I think." She nodded to herself, assessing. "Ye—yes, I'm more than good." And she reached for him again, curious to see if the lightening, the thunder she had felt would strike once more.

He stopped her just shy of his lips, pulling back slightly. "Come, Erik's little Pandora. We had best not get carried away, hmm."

"Oh, but—"

He placed a finger gently on her lips; his eyes laughing in their joy. And then he was smiling!

Christine saw him smile fully; had she ever seen him smile?! It was oddly boyish in its charm.

He tapped her lips, "This can lead us only so far, my dear, before we must see it through… and Erik does not think Christine is ready to make that choice right at this time…" he mumbled _sotto voce_, "—_even if this is the place_." He grinned that roguish grin once more, and she looked at him curiously, uncomprehending.

He kissed her forehead, and gently moving her away from him, he rose. "Do you need assistance dressing, Christine? It is time the world reclaimed its light."

Biting her kiss-swollen lip, she shook her head.

His eyes softened, and making his way once more back to her, he kissed her again—in the more familiar way she was used to— and mumbled against her lips, "Get dressed. Erik will meet you downstairs."

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"—situation is progressing at an alarming rate, Erik. If you do not want her involved, then we need to leave—tonight!"

Christine froze from her position above the stairs, straining to hear. But try as she might, she couldn't understand Erik's next words.

The Persian man spoke, "This is good, and I am happy for you, my friend. But it will do nothing to remedy the immediate situation."

Again, she could hear nothing in response.

"And what , Erik, will I tell mademoiselle when she asks?"

She heard footsteps, and quickly she moved back, holding her breath so that they wouldn't hear her.

"You may tell her, daroga, that Erik has been called away and will return… soon."

She watched as the front door closed and then there was silence.

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"Come, Mademoiselle. You're breakfast is growing cold."

Christine had paused in her entrance to the kitchen. This was the first time she had set foot downstairs, and she was very much unsure in her surroundings. Everywhere was openness and light—sunshine and greenery.

This was certainly not a place she would have ever envisioned Erik living.

"Come, Mademoiselle Daae. Erik is away at present, but I am hopeful he will return soon. Please, have a seat."

She nodded toward the Persian man and sat in one of the two chairs at the breakfast table. Surreptitiously, she studied him.

Of a medium build and height, he wore a rather short and furry hat perched on his head. His hair was dark as was his skin, and yet, the most peculiar aspect of his appearance was his eyes.

They were the color of jade.

The Persian man poured her tea. "I do not believe that we have been introduced properly. My name, mademoiselle, is Nadir Khan, but you may do like a mutual acquaintance of ours and address me as daroga if you like."

"Monsieur Daroga…?" she stated uncertainly.

The man smiled a toothy, white grin, "Just daroga, mademoiselle. It means police-chief where I am from."

Her eyes narrowing, she looked at him curiously. "Police-chief? But you know Erik. And you both are friends—?"

He took a sip of his juice and nodded, "Erik and I have a long and sordid history, mademoiselle. As do, you are sure to find, many a former acquaintance of Erik's that are _still_ living."

Christine didn't know why, but the Persian man's—the daroga's words struck her as terribly ominous.

He gestured that she eat, and she began to, but curiosity won out. "Have you known Erik long?"

He wiped his mouth with the cloth napkin, finishing chewing the morsel he was eating. He swallowed, "I have known Erik for many years, but not so many as to _know_ him, mademoiselle."

She nodded, liking the foreign man immensely; he was thoughtful in his speech and careful in his words. "Christine." she decided, "Please, you must call me Christine… Monsieur Khan."

He smiled and nodded, sipping a bit of tea. "Have you yet questioned Erik about his past, Christine?"

She bit her lip and looked guiltily down at her plate. She murmured, "I don't believe he would appreciate prying, and the last thing I want to do is make him angry again! Especially after everything he's done for me. After everything you've both—"

"And so you would seek your information from me?"

She looked up.

His voice was kind, but she couldn't help but feel wrong-footed. She pursed her lips, folding her fork in a sign of completion on her mostly untouched plate. "I just—I need to know… that night, the night the opera house burned. You were there. You saw what he did to me…what he did to Raoul. He almost killed us all! And I—"

Putting down his knife and fork, Christine watched as the daroga sat back from the table; it seemed their breakfast was fated to be uneaten.

He picked up his tea and in quiet contemplation, they sat.

At length, he stated, "Mademoiselle Daae, I have known Erik for many years, and that night… _that night _was the culmination of the tragedy that is Erik's life.

"I need not relate to you how talented the man is. His music is an aspect of which _I_ am only just becoming acquainted. In the years that Erik and I were together, mademoiselle…in those years, Erik was the advisor and court assassin to the Shah-in-Shah of Persia."

Christine's eyes grew wide.

He held up his hands entreating, "Now, before you judge him, you must understand the political climate of the day. The Shah-in-Shah was the definitive power in all of Persia, and whatever the Shah-in-Shah wanted, he received, or the balance would be paid in blood.

"And Christine, forgive me if I make an unfair comparison, but the drama that took place surrounding the events of the Populaire was child's play compared to the reality of that particular time and place." He shook his head, "Court standing and politics were everything. Gossip and intrigue the chief entertainment of the court, and if one lost his political standing, one lost his life."

The daroga shrugged, "For Erik, the choice was to kill or be killed. And Mademoiselle Daae, he killed. And he did so very creatively for the entertainment of the Shah."

Feeling ill, she rose abruptly from the table unwilling, _unable_ to hear any more.

"Wait!" The Persian man followed her as she made her way back up the stairs. "Wait, please!"

She paused and turned mid-step, nausea warring with confusion.

"Mademoiselle," his voice implored her, "Can you not for one moment place yourself in Erik's circumstances and ask yourself why? Why would he go to such lengths to trespass in an opera house beneath the middle of Paris when he could—I assure you—afford to live in luxurious seclusion anywhere else in the world? Why would he befriend a little girl, train her, and then kidnap the woman she had become? Why would he then let that young woman go when he had created such elaborate plans to hold her captive?"

The Persian man sighed, and for a moment he looked impossibly sad. "None of the answers are simple, mademoiselle, but they are all worth taking the time to ponder and learn. That is, if you think you can accept all of the pieces of Erik there are: the wicked as well as the divine." He gave her a tight-lipped smile, and bowing slightly, turned and walked away.

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_**A/N:**_ Unexpected snow day for the authoress = extra early posting for her readers. :D

Again, thank you all so much for gifting me with your kind words! And please note, if you don't sign in, I can't respond back.

However, I am going to take the time to respond to the anonymous pregnant woman confined to bed who left such a flattering review—thank you. Thank you very much! I am glad my little tale could help.

Also, this is my own neurosis showing through with not emphasizing the daroga's name—Susan Kay came up with the name Nadir Khan and Nadir Khan he will always be to me—However, I do not own the name Nadir Khan, and this fanfiction authoress must humbly beg the gods of copyrighting not to smite her for using it.

And so, dear readers, what did you think of the daroga's take on Erik's life? What will Christine decide to do next you think?

I await your response with baited breath.

_**DGM**_


	14. Give the Devil His Due

Part XIV: Give the Devil His Due

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Upon the conclusion of Monsieur Khan's impromptu speech, Christine returned to her room to think on what he had told her, and there she spent the remainder of the day lost in her thoughts.

Why had Erik trained her? _Why had he chosen her?_ This was the question she couldn't get past. The one she kept circling around and 'round.

She was no one special. Her voice, before he had begun training it, had been more than passably good, but still... it wasn't what he had made it into.

He had given it wings, gifted her with such a rare, special gift; revealing to her all of the potential she could have, if she just listened and learned from him.

And she dearly hoped all of his training hadn't been for naught. She had yet to attempt to sing since her illness. And in point of fact, she was more than a little worried at what she might find when she finally did.

Dispelling that anxiety-provoking thought for now, Christine forced her thoughts to circle back to the questions with which Monsieur Khan told her to begin.

So he had trained her, but _why_ _her_?

Better still, _why him?_

Why did he choose to build his home illegally in the bowels of the opera house when he could have built it _legally_ anywhere else?

That was a good question, and for a moment, Christine tried to put herself in Erik's shoes using her imagination, even going so far as to cover parts of her face with her hands to better fit the role…

Deformed and reclusive. Isolated and brilliant. People would ask questions; they would wonder what was under the masksh_—he _wore.

Always questions…

And before Erik had perfected his life-like mask, he would have had to hide from people, his dealings with the general populace kept to the barest of all necessities. For hadn't she already proven that people could not be trusted?

Hadn't she once again proved it to him when she tore his mask away?

Christine closed her eyes, her throat suddenly dry, and a lead weight filling her stomach as she realized for the first time just what she did to him when she ripped away his mask—not once, but _twice_!

She paled, gulping suddenly, feeling light-headed, and needing to sit down. Her reaction to his face! And his reaction to her unthinking betrayal—

…and then the reaction of the crowd that night she did it again!

She closed her eyes, remembering it all. His face had sparked a frenzy, had instigated a riot!

And it was all her fault—all of it.

…but she couldn't change the past.

She couldn't change how she treated him.

_She couldn't. _

She could, however, choose to learn from her mistakes so that she didn't make the same ones in the future.

So saying, she took a deep breath, and once more packed her emotion away. This was not her life she was examining, it was his, and she resumed her mental exercise, once again placing herself in Erik's shoes as she would the part of a character she was trying to adapt for the stage.

What was his life like?

…his contact with other people needed to be kept at a minimum because of his face.

And he was human so he would need the essentials: food, clothing, and shelter…

He _had_ stolen food from the Populaire. Christine remembered the few meals he had served her down in his underground home, and she recalled how they were always meals prepared from the opera house kitchens. ...so he didn't starve.

Clothing he had stolen from the props department. Weren't the seamstresses constantly complaining of a Phantom spirit displacing things, things turning up missing, things missing and then found in need of repair…and then going missing again.

Christine laughed; the absurdity of the situation suddenly striking her as terribly funny. He had turned the props department into his personal laundry and dry-cleaning service.

Oh, her ingenious lo—! She stopped herself quickly before she could go any further with that thought.

Right. So that took care of food and clothes.

But where did the rest of it fit in?

He must have chosen the Populaire for a reason…

She didn't know how old he was, but he was definitely much older than her. A little more than twice her age, if she had to take a guess.

So what could have drawn a man like Erik, a man who could live anywhere he wanted, to make his home underneath an opera house?

She puzzled over that one a bit, drawing from her own experience living in the ballet dormitories. Although it was always an exciting place to be, it was also mentally and physically draining as well…

But Erik had made his home far enough away from the daily goings-on not to be enmeshed in it should he choose not to be…

She smiled sadly.

The Populaire had been her home—and it was loud and intrusive; it's inhabitants a gossipy, superstitious lot.

There were many times she had wished she had an escape. Sometimes, it seemed the only peace she could find would be when she went to chapel… for hardly anyone else deigned to darken the doors.

And in point of fact, there was oftentimes more drama happening off the stage than on it. Weren't her and Erik's circumstances proof of that?

Alright, so where did a man like Erik fit in?

Reclusive, deformed… brilliant…

Her mind churned as she thought about his circumstances.

Always a show to be had, a drama to unfold…never a dull moment, should he choose to watch… but watch was all he could do.

He couldn't participate in the drama…at least not directly, and it must have been both heaven and hell to watch the comings and goings of each man, woman, and child, knowing that he couldn't help them, he couldn't aid them unless… unless he was an _Angel_ …or a _Phantom_.

She closed her eyes, getting lost in his world, his patterns and his obsessions. There was so much she didn't know about him, but there was so much she did…if only she stopped to think. To think about what she saw. What she knew.

What she saw even when she didn't want to see…

His house.

His house was filled with his many and varied interests.

Books in several languages, some recognizable, others not had lined the shelves of his music room. He had paintings: dark, macabre things she was certain he had painted himself. And yet, as she recalled them now, they always had a glimmer of light in them piercing the core of the darkness, giving hope and illumination when it seemed all was in darkness.

The varied musical instruments were not a surprise.

But what was was the life-sized mannequin of herself… in a wedding dress…

Christine's imagination drew up short there, halting as she remembered the terror, relived the horror of that night.

She allowed herself to feel it, the confusion and horror but only for a moment.

Again, she packed the feelings away and forced herself to look past them to his point of view, putting herself once more in his place.

…he was alone. Erik was lonely. He had chosen her, for whatever reason, trained her from girlhood to be a voice that would, indeed, come to counter his own.

Was that his eventual hope then?

That she would counter him—partner him and marry him. And then share in his singular and lonely life?

Hnnuh…

Her imagination drew up short there; she really didn't know how she felt about that now. On one hand, she still remembered seeing that mannequin… and the horror of it—the weighted expectation.

But on the other…

He knew her—_knew her_ _everything_! Even right down to how much honey she took in her tea.

For a moment, she lost herself in thought of his consideration, his want to please her over the years. From little gifts, fripperies, and roses to songs to cheer and comfort her, and how he cared for her when she was ill! Always a tonic left on her night table with a pot of his special willow bark and ginseng tea for her throat.

And always the music—

But no…

She was losing thread in her purpose, and her purpose was to put herself in his place, so...

Alright, so she was in his home. What else struck her as odd or strange? What other impressions did she have?

There was the diorama set of the Populaire that she had discovered on his desk, and the little push-pin people—herself included— that had stood in the predictable positions in which he had positioned them. Little pushpin people just where he had placed them…this, too, snapped into sudden clarity.

For Erik, the push-pin people, and the people themselves, must have been like having pieces on a chessboard, able to be easily manipulated by finding the right influence, pulling the right strings… opening doors for some, cutting ropes so that props would fall on others… For a man that could only interact with his environment indirectly…through the guise of Angel or Phantom…for that man, it must have been like playing God.

And as her thoughts spun and spun, the tapestry that was Erik's life while at the Populaire began to weave and form itself in her mind; her thoughts about him, and his place within her life suddenly becoming clearer.

In putting herself in his situation, she really could forgive him for deceiving her.

For how else would he have been able to train her without frightening the life out of her? Meeting him in person would have had the younger her running from the Populaire faster than she could say Mamma Valerius.

And so it was that Christine finally forgave Erik his deception, his obsession with her; for once she truly understood him, once she understood even a fraction of his motivations, it was impossible for her _not_ to forgive.

And so she let it go, feeling a sense of peace settle within her that she had not felt since before that fateful night, the night long ago when she tore away his mask and uncovered the truth.

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But peace was fleeting when fast on its heels came the thought of Erik being an assassin.

A murderer.

While at the Populaire, he had murdered once that she knew of: Joseph Buquet.

Few called it an accident, and Meg swore she saw the whole thing… and yet…

Buquet was not a nice man.

More than once, Madam Giry had told the girls to steer clear of him. And more than one girl had had stories to tell; horrible, ugly stories that Christine had refused to listen to, preferring to shut out the ugliness and focus on perfecting her music—her art.

But Erik… Erik knew.

Of course he had known, he knew everything that went on at the opera, _and_ he had been an assassin…

Erik had been an assassin.

And according to Monsieur Khan, a _creative_ one at that.

She thought of the revolving mirrored chamber where Raoul and Monsieur Khan had almost died. At first, she had thought it pretty, a lovely oasis of a place to go and admire oneself into infinity. That was until the chamber started heating up, and she realized they were slowly being cooked to death.

She decided to use her new-found trick of putting herself in Erik's place with this as well.

He had made a torture chamber out of mirrors. Why did that thought nag?

…it had been a place where one could get lost in one's reflection…a torture chamber… made…of…_mirrors_… reflecting the condemned's face unto infinity… torture…mirrors…face…infini—

_Oh, Erik_!

Christine closed her eyes, realizing exactly why the mirror chamber would be a torture chamber for him, and she felt saddened to the core for the man he was.

The _man_ he had to beco—

"_**DAROGA!**_"

Her eyes shot open as she flew to her feet; her thoughts shattered like glass.

Erik's Voice surrounded her, filling her ears with its frantic note.

"_**DAROGA!**_"

She gulped, waiting. One beat. Two. And he was in her bedroom, literally barreling down the door and hoisting her up in his arms. And they were flying down the stairs two at a time, and then out the back door.

"**DAROGA!**"

Sweet Jesu! Erik's bellow nearly deafened her, and quickly she clapped her hands over her ears.

He never once slowed his stride from the villa, and Christine had no idea where they were going as she had no idea where they actually were.

She could only just hang on to him and pray.

Finally, beside a copse of scraggly cypress trees, he sat her down and crouching low, he met her wide-eyed stare. "Christine, listen to Erik. You must do as Erik says. _**DO NOT**_**, **_**DO NOT UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES MOVE FROM THIS SPOT**_**!** Do you understand?"

Terrified, Christine could only nod. Whatever happened had Erik genuinely alarmed.

"Stay here. Do not move, do not speak. Erik will come back for you when he's able."

And he touched her lips with his fingertips, and then he was gone.

And she was once more alone.

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_**A/N:**_ Wow, what a ride! Do let this unassuming know what you think regarding Christine's little mental meandering, won't you?

As an aside, I have tried to keep my description of Christine to a minimum by not describing her hair or eye color or the shape of her body type. Tell me, reader, how do you picture Christine in your imagination?

As always, I await your replies with baited breath. And please note, if you're not signed in, the authoress cannot reply back to you even though she thanks you kindly for the reviews!

Happy reading!

_**DGM**_


	15. All Hell Broke Loose

Part XV: All Hell Broke Loose

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Christine heard nothing for many minutes, nothing except the rustling of the wind through the tall grasses, the air heavy with the threat of rain.

It seemed her habit of losing time proved to be no exception when she was lost in the imagining of Erik's world instead of her own. Darkness had fallen some time ago, and chancing a look up, she realized the moon was on its downward climb, just visible through a thick bank of roiling clouds.

She shivered, feeling a coldness that had absolutely nothing to do with the weather.

His eyes had been panicked; _he_ had been panicked.

In all her years that she had known him—as her Angel, the Phantom, and Erik— she had never once seen him look anything less than self-assured. He had always seemed in control, if not always of his emotions, then always of the situation and his actions.

_Always_.

The wind picked up its howling; sweeping through the grasses on a scream… but wait...was that the wind?

Christine strained her hearing, trying to focus— another scream-like howl pierced the night, and then all was silent once more.

The fine hairs at the back of her nape stood on end. She could see nothing; the moon did not cast a single shadow.

For many minutes, she waited, expectant... what if Erik had forgotten about her? What if he was hurt and needed help? What if—

**NO**!

He told her to stay right here, and right here was where she would stay. For once she would not live up to his sobriquet of her.

The sounds of rolling thunder pierced the night sky, and Christine jumped, frightened to her core. The thunder went away, but came back again and again, each time louder than before, and she realized the sky was getting lighter.

She could actually see in the distance an orange-ish glow.

The acrid smell of smoke carried itself to her on the wind.

There was a fire… the villa was on fire!

Just then another thundering crash deafened her as orange-glowing fire balled high in the sky. Again, she had to clap her hands over her ears to block out the sound.

The villa had exploded.

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Christine sat there, transfixed, watching the plume of smoke rise high, disappearing into the dark. For untold minutes, she sat there unmoving, hardly breathing, silent, and wide-eyed.

And then there was a figure before the flames running against them, making his way ever-steadily towards her.

She prayed it was Erik.

"Christine!"

"Here, Erik! Erik I'm here."

He ran towards the sound of her voice; he was out of breath. "For once, …Erik's little Pandora …listens... Come." And scooping her up, he proceeded to carry her.

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He had been carrying her for many minutes.

The only sound the shushing of their clothing. She craned her neck over his shoulder; if she _just_ squinted, she could still make out the glow of the fire in the virtual darkness. Drawing closer, she sniffed. The smell of smoke permeated his clothes.

Another few minutes past in silence, and Christine began growing more anxious. He had not said a word, and this position had her at a severe disadvantage…

"Erik…is Monsieur Khan okay?"

Silence answered her.

"Erik?"

Why was he refusing to answer her, unless… "_Is he dead?_ Did the explosion kill him?!"

He stopped walking and looked down at her.

Christine could see nothing of him to make out his expression.

"The daroga is fine, Christine. He will catch us up as soon as he is able." His tone reflected little patience.

He began to walk once more, and she snapped, "_I_ can walk too, you know?"

He shifted her in his hold. "Does Christine have on shoes?"

"Yes. Christine does." She answered waspishly.

She squirmed unrelenting, until he finally took the hint and set her on her feet.

"Christine was supposed to be in bed." He accused.

She took a step away from him, and looked up to where she thought his face was, "I had a lot to think about."

"You are still fully dressed, and for this, Erik couldn't be more pleased." His satisfied tone indeed reflected it.

Taking out a few of the pins holding her hair, she began replacing and fixing the ones that had jostled loose from their flight. She mumbled around them, "Mmm don' see how you camm mow tha; Ish ash dar ash pitcsh out here."

"Which is why Erik was choosing to carry his Christine, so that she will not fall and hurt herself. Among other reasons."

Replacing the last of them, she mock-bowed low before him, "Oh pardon me! How could I have forgotten? The _Phantom_ can see in the dark."

"Christine…"

"_What_?!" she railed through the darkness, "You leave this morning to go God knows where, and then when you come back, you're panicking and quite suddenly, we're running for our lives… or rather _you_ are because you don't trust me for one moment to follow in your stead. And in the time between not one word have you given me in explanation."

"Erik does not panic, Christine. You are mistaken."

"Oh! Trust me, _mon Ange_, I saw the look in your eyes before you grabbed me and hoisted me away! That was definitely panic."

She flinched as a hand came out of the dark and rested gently against her cheek. "Is Erik still …_your_ _Ange, _Christine?"

She put her hands a top his against her cheek and gently kissed his fingertips. "Yes. Yes, you still are, _mon_ _Ange_. But Erik, I need to know what's happened and where we go from here.

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Offering his arm to her, he began to guide them through the thick grasses and thickets of the Italian countryside mid-harvest. Christine soon realized why Erik had carried her for so long. _As did he_. Her morning dress, though one infinitely less ornamental than one meant for day or evening wear, was still very cumbersome, and her shoes were not fit for walking on such uneven ground.

After the third time she stumbled, he growled and hoisted her back once more into his arms.

Sighing despondently, she didn't offer a protest.

"To answer your questions, Christine, do you recall the conversation in the house underground when Erik said he could not journey to Rome with you?"

Feeling his eyes on her, she nodded into the darkness.

"The word choice Erik used was _cannot_. Erik cannot be in Italy, Christine because a man, a very bad man from Erik's past, wants to kill him and all he holds dear." She felt his arms wrap more securely around her, pulling her closer to him.

She huffed, and rested her head on his shoulder as they walked on, "So this man—who is he? What did you do to him?"

"The question you _should_ ask, Mademoiselle Daae, is what Erik _didn't_ do to him, but rather what he did to_ his father_. The man, Lazarro is his name, is a very powerfully connected gentleman in the criminal world of Sicily. When Erik was a younger man, he performed as a magician, travelling from place to place, performing for princes and paupers alike. Erik's reputation grew extensive, and he had many requesting of his attention. It was, after all, how Erik met Lazarro's father and how he later met the daroga.

"So what did he ask you to do?" Christine murmured, once again feeling a coldness that had absolutely nothing to do with weather.

She shivered.

That was all it took to have Erik putting her on her feet once again. And removing his coat, he bundled her thoroughly in it and then lifting her, began to walk once more.

"During my travels to the island of Sicily, Erik was invited by Lazarro's father Giovanni to perform for his neighbors. The city of Palermo at the time was a crowded, lawless place, Christine; its people a corrupt and desperate populace. The Sicilian government was practically non-existent, and so the people had to rule themselves. This involved much trickery and much thieving."

Adjusting her in his arms, Erik drew her closer so that her head could rest on his shoulder if she so chose. She did, letting her breath fan across his neck and breathing in the smell of him.

He sighed her name softly on the wind.

She nudged his shoulder with her head, "Keep talking, Erik. I want to know."

He continued, "The man Giovanni was very well-connected politically. A very powerful man. He gained his power through offering his neighbors protection from theft and damage if they paid a fee each month for that protection."

"Doesn't sound so bad." Christine yawned, squirming in Erik's hold until she had her arms around his neck, and her head supported by his shoulder. She could feel herself becoming sleepy, and Erik's Voice wasn't helping matters.

"It is when _he_ was the one originally causing the thefts and damages, Christine."

"Oh."

"Yes, oh." he replied fondly. And he drew her just a little bit closer to him.

She heard him sigh, as if steeling himself for what he had to say next. "Erik was hired by Giovanni to take care of a little land dispute between himself and a neighbor. It seems the neighbor had refused to pay Lazarro's father his fee, and Erik was hired to get the man to do so through _any_ means necessary."

"You didn't… did you?"

He stopped walking and put her down on her feet once more to face him. She felt at a disadvantage because she couldn't see him. He brought a hand to her cheek. "You must understand, Christine, that Erik was a much younger man then and more motivated by thoughts of greed than any other at this point in his life."

She turned, letting his hand fall away, "I see. So you were a mercenary then.".

"How do you know that wor—? Well, yes… Erik was."

Her eyebrows raised, "Was?"

"_Was_."

She put her hands over her temple, feeling an impending headache blossom. "And so then what happened?"

"Giovanni's neighbor paid Erik more."

"Och!—"Christine choked, "You mean you…?!"

"Yes. Erik did."

"And so now... ?

"Now Erik will deal with Giovanni's son Lazarro and his men when the time is right."

"_Men_? Lazarro has _men_?!"

He sighed, "Giovanni was very well-connected, Christine. Upon his death, that _privilege_ _of power_ was transferred to his son."

She threw up her hands, "Oh, that's great! That's just great, Erik! I don't suppose the neighbor who hired you is as well-connected as Giovanni's son?"

"The neighbor is dead."

"Did you—?"

"No! _Sweet Jesu_, Christine! Erik may be a monster, but he has _some_ scruples. Erik has never killed an employer. … …alright, that is not true. Erik did kill his first employer, but technically, Erik wasn't hired but _enslaved_. So, yes. Erik has never killed a man that has hired him."

… … …"Wait a minute...you were _enslaved_?!"

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_**A/N:**_ I do declare the by-play was fun to write in this chapter! I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it, dear reader. Now, the authoress believes she has earned a bit of a rest from updating for a bit, and so, my next one will be this coming Sunday. I will be responding to any new reviews received before then, so do tell me what you think, do!

Wishing everyone happy reading!

_**DGM**_


	16. To Face the Devil, part I

Part XVI: To Face the Devil, part I

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"And so, to answer your first question, my dear, when Erik left you earlier yesterday morning, he did so to find out more information from the men the daroga had seen in the village. He found them, and he questioned them."

Christine raised her eyebrows and turned slowly to where she thought his face was in the darkness. He had pointedly ignored her question about his enslavement, choosing not to answer it. He also did not go into detail about just how he questioned those men. But if she was honest with herself, Christine didn't think she wanted to know just what he had done in order to gather the information he did.

"And so it happened that one of the men Erik questioned did confess to there being a time-delayed incendiary device at the daroga's villa set to explode that evening upon the arrival of a contingent of Lazarro's men. And this was what prompted Erik to _calmly _come and collect Christine and secrete her safely away and then return for the daroga. It was then agreed that he and Erik would separate for a time so as to confuse Lazarro's men, and then Erik and Christine would catch the daroga up in Rome."

Christine let the silence fall between them as she absorbed everything he had just explained. At length, she snorted, mumbling into his lapel, "Youstill_ panicked_."

No longer noticing the familiar shushing of his clothes as he waded through the tall grasses, she cheered, "We're on a road, aren't we, Erik? I'm right, aren't I? We're on a road!" she wiggled in his hold. "Alright, you can put me down now."

She felt him stiffen, "Yes, it is a clay road with lots of divots, my dear. Erik had better continue to carry you. He does not want you to turn an ankle."

"Nonsense." she tutted, squirming until he relented and sat her down on her feet once more. She did, however, find that she had to rely on him to be her eyes as it was still dark as pitch, and she could only make out the barest of shadows surrounding them.

He guided her unerringly through the dark, his arm solicitously placed through hers, and so it was that they travelled for miles this way.

And now, now the sky was fading from black to the washy gray of earliest morning, and Christine was exhausted. "Alright, Erik. I can't take anymore! I've reached my limit. Yes. I'm there."

She put her hands on hips and bent over, stretching the sore muscles of her calves. The shoes she was wearing really weren't meant to go cross-country.

"Just a few more miles, Christine, and then Erik promises you your rest."

"Miles? _Miles?!_ I don't have another mile left in me—" she was cut short by a fit of coughing that had her doubling over.

Erik quickly stood her back up straight, and helped her find her breath once more. Once she had, he scooped her back up and began carrying her. "And this, too, is why Erik wanted to carry you, Christine. You are still recovering from being so ill."

Childishly, Christine mimicked his words back to him, punctuating it with a sticking out of her tongue.

He stopped walking and looking down, menaced, "Was that an _invitation_, Mademoiselle Daae? Because Erik assures you, he will gladly accept it were mademoiselle so inclined to offer it again."

Christine paled.

And it wasn't just because Erik's tone and words were meant to strike the fear of God into her, which they were, but because—

"Your mask." She gulped, eyes going wide, "Oh, Erik! _Your mask_!"

Setting her down, quickly, his hands flew to his face, presumably to assess the damage, but he had turned away from her, shielding himself from her view.

Christine took in the parts of his appearance she could. His wig was singed and covered in dirt and ash. His clothes as well. She looked down. The coat she wore had tears and burns scattered throughout.

And his mask, his mask, oh, lord! His Mask. From what she had seen before he turned away, parts of it had melted slightly, losing shape; especially the part of his nose!

Just how close had he come to that blast?

"We must find shelter and quickly, Christine." Was it her imagination or was that panicked note back in his Voice?

He still refused to face her.

Learning from past experience when not to push, she answered concisely, "Of course. Lead on, _Ange_."

Wasting no time, he did so, and Christine had to take two strides for his every one. And her lungs were really not up for that kind of trek. She began to cough as she fell slightly behind him. Then the cough turned into a slight wheeze that had her stopping for breath, and Erik doubling back to assist her.

Gathering her from behind, he straightened her from her 'coughing' bow and once again helped measure her breaths. Once she was sorted out, he stated lowly in her ear, "_**Rule number two: You will not open your eyes, Christine. You will not look at Erik. You will keep your eyes closed while Erik carries you, and you will do so until he gives you express permission to open them again**_."

Christine closed her eyes, the weight of them suddenly insupportable. "Did you just mesmerize me, Erik?"

He scooped her up once more and cradled her in his arms.

He didn't answer her.

"Erik?"

"… … Erik?"

"It seems Erik's Christine has forgotten _**Rule Number One: That Christine is not to speak unless Erik gives her his express permission. **_Christine had better pray to the God she believes in that she remembers Rule Number Two."

Christine gasped, immediately falling silent and still in his hold.

There was no doubt about it, he was panicking. And she was quickly learning that when Erik panicked, his Phantom persona was not far behind.

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"Erik, this is ridiculous."

For what had to be the twentieth time, she heard him begin to curse and mutter under his breath. "Erik. Let me help you. _Allow_ me to help you."

Christine was facing a wall. It was wooden and well-weathered and the boards smelled damp and of decay. But she had no idea where they were or even what type of structure they were in. Going by the smell, she would say it was a disused barn but she couldn't tell because Erik had her blindfolded.

Facing a wall _and_ blindfolded! All of his precautions were for naught.

She couldn't open her eyes. She could not even open her eyes without his permission. How in the devil did he _do_ that?!

After the twenty-sixth time of more cursed muttering, Christine had had enough!

"Alright Erik! Alright! That's it! Either trust me enough to tell me what's going on and to try and find a solution or… … …I'm leaving. God knows it will be difficult because I won't be able to find the broadside of a barn let alone its exit without the use of my eyes, but I'll do it! I'll walk."

"Christine." His Voice sounded pitiful.

"Yes, Erik." She answered hopefully.

"Erik asks you to remember Rule Number One and keep it close to you. He doesn't want to have to remind you again. Nor does he want to have to instigate Rule Number Three."

Christine grit her jaw, having a pretty good idea of what Rule Number Three would entail. She intoned sweetly, "And what exactly is Rule Number Three, Erik dear?"

"_**Christine will stay exactly where Erik has put Christine and not move from that spot unless he has given his express permission**_**."**

She nodded, and something within her snapped. "Ah. Of course. How silly of me! Perhaps you should remove my hearing too, and then I could be Christine Daae: the deaf, dumb, and blind wonder? Step right up folks, step right up. See the amazing mesmerist perform his tricks. But don't worry, she still has her senses of smell, taste, and touch….hmm...perhaps you could find a way of eliminating those as well? Then I really could be like that mannequin found in your quar—"

As soon as she uttered the words, she knew she had gone too far.

She pursed her lips to bite them back, bring them back. _OH DEAR GOD_! _How had she forgotten with whom she was talking?! _

Holding her breath, she strained to hear, for it was now deathly silent in the barn. _Eerily so_. Had he taken her words for truth? Had he removed her hearing without her knowledge?!

She swallowed, and the fine hairs on the back of her neck stood on end.

"_Listen closely, Mademoiselle Daae for Erik is only going to say this once."_

He was right behind her, his Voice piercing her ears with lethal intent, "_Erik has given you quarter because you have been so ill and have been put through hell, but he promises you that this good treatment will soon be at an end if you do not follow his instructions. Explicitly. Otherwise, he really will render Mademoiselle as senseless and will-less as she professes he is able to do. Now. __**Leave your eyes closed. Be as silent as the grave, and just as still.**__ Yes?_"

Pursing her lips together, she nodded. It was a moment later before she felt that feeling, the feeling of being hunted prey, leave her.

She dared to breathe but only shallowly.

More time passed, and her feet, which were already sore from walking, began to ache and swell. Still, she didn't move. She didn't make a sound.

At length, she heard Erik groan aloud as if in pain.

She bit her lip, trying not to talk, but she couldn't stand it anymore! "Oh! If you'd only just allow me to help you, Erik!" she burst out. "Tell me what's going on. Maybe I can help y—"

"**ALRIGHT!**" he roared, his Voice echoed, filling her with its frustrated fury.

He growled, "Erik's mask melted during the explosion, Christine, adhering to parts of Erik's face. Parts of Erik's face are very fragile, very delicate due to the deformity. And it just so happens, the mask is adhered to several such parts."

Christine's knees grew weak, her reaction visceral.

She didn't like to think of anyone—anything being in pain, and the thought of Erik suffering had her leaning up against the wall, weak-kneed. Taking deep breaths, she forced herself to stand up straight to deal with this, just as she would a bruised joint or broken toe.

She nodded carefully, "Alright, then. And so what are you doing now to remedy it?"

He informed her, "What does Mademoiselle Daae think Erik is doing? He is peeling away the mask…and Erik's ruin of a face is going with it."

Yes. Oh, dear merciful God in Heaven! She was going to lose it.

Suddenly, she was quite glad she hadn't eaten anything in quite a while. Yes, she was! She took several deep breaths to still the weakness in limbs that abruptly seemed too heavy. She couldn't lose it! She couldn't!

_He needed her. _

She breathed, "Ummkay. So what are you using to remove the mask—" _and your face_, she thought weakly.

Another pained groan, "Erik's pocket-knife."

"Ah—oooh-Oh! _Deep breaths_, Christine. Deep breaths! Okay! Breathe. Oh, breathe! Alright, so, you have a piece of India rubber adhered to your face. We can manage that. We can deal." Her high-pitched, worried tone seemed to say otherwise.

Raking off the blindfold, she turned around, imploring him, "Erik. You have to allow me to see so I can assist you." She was proud of herself; her voice barely even shook.

Another groan.

"ERIK!"

"_**QUIET, CHRISTINE**_!"

"_**No!**_ You need help and are in no position to decline it. Remember the fable of the little mouse and the lion, Erik?"

"Fables?" he cried, "What you are saying is useless to Erik, Christine. _Useless_!" She heard another moan and then a slight sniffle.

She felt weak-kneed once again, and only this time, because Erik was crying.

_Crying_!

"No, it's not." She deliberately kept her voice soft, as if speaking to a child. She began walking to where she thought his Voice was. "If you'd just let me see, then perhaps I could think of a way to help you."

"There is no way to help Erik, Christine!" He spat viciously, moaning anew in pain. There was a quick inhalation and then a squelching sound.

She swallowed, honing in on his Voice, and feeling blindly for him, approached slowly. The thought occurred to her that this was perhaps the most lethal game of Blind Man's Bluff she had ever played.

It didn't make her smile.

With her hands outstretched, she felt for him, drawing back slightly when she felt the clothes on his back. His surprised inhalation had her taking a full step back once more.

She kept her voice calm and gentle. "Please, Erik."

"Oh, Christine." he pled; his Voice held heartbreak.

Her heart in her throat, she took a step towards him, and hugged him close to her.

"It's alright, it'll be alright." She could feel him trembling. And oh! This was another revelation for her! Her strong _Ange_, her all-powerful _Phantom_ was truly… just a man.

He was an injured, hurt man that was scared and in need of her help.

Drawing from a reserve of strength even _she_ didn't know she possessed, she insisted to his lapel, "Erik, you've got to let me see."

And slowly, she lifted a hand, even surprising herself with how steady it was, to his face.

She felt him flinch as her hand made contact with his chin. It was slippery wet."Shh-shh, it's alright." she soothed. And she just held his chin in her hand for many moments, the both of them adjusting to this new turn of events. Slowly, she began to move her hand to his cheek, and he drew an injured breath. She did too when she felt the mask. It was still part-ways on his face, hanging loose by a flap of skin.

She felt light-headed, severely light-headed, but breathing through it, she pressed on, feeling for the cavity that housed his nose. Thankfully, the mask didn't appear to be stuck there. She felt his other cheek. The mask was still adhered. Then her hands drifted to his forehead, and she felt the jagged evidence of him trying to tear and cut it away.

She put her fingernails underneath one of the seams he had loosened, and tugged slightly. His hiss of breath had her stopping in an instant. Her other hand came up and began rubbing the nape of his neck in a soothing gesture.

"Erik, I need the use of my eyes if I'm to help."

Shaking his head, he wept brokenly, "No. No, Christine! Don't ask this of Erik."

She swallowed, her throat parched, "Look. I might be able to think of a way… but I need to be able to—to see for myself…"

"Tell Erik, and he wi—"

"_Erik_!" She felt him flinch from the sharpness of her tone, "Just-just please. Do this for me—for _us_."

He began to tremble anew, and her heart broke for him then. She swallowed back the emotion; she needed to be strong. Strong for him when he couldn't be so himself. "It's alright, Erik. It'll be alright. Just please trust me. Please."

And Christine prayed. She prayed to the God of her understanding, prayed Erik would see reason, prayed it wasn't as bad as she imagined, prayed she could find a way to assis—

"Christine, Erik gives you permission to open your eyes."

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_**A/N**_: This fic is rated 'M' for the usual reasons; however, it really is not for the squeamish of heart either as the authoress hopes she has just related. Poor Erik! Do let me know what you think, dear reader.

And as an aside to my anonymous 'Phantom' reviewer: where are you, dear friend? Your comments are insightful,complementary, and spot-on. I've missed them for the last couple of chapters. I do hope I haven't lost my resident ghost!

Also, beginning soon, all chapters will now be beta'd by QueenBtchoftheUniverse. (A match made in heaven if I do say so myself)

My Queen,

This humble authoress and audience of devoted readers await you.

Happy reading to all,

_**DGM**_


	17. To Face the Devil, part II

Part XVII: To Face the Devil, part II

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Holding onto him securely, she did so, blinking into the early afternoon sun. And bracing herself for what she would find, she looked up.

Even _her_ vivid imagination could not have come up with something so gory, so macabre! She swayed slightly, and his arms came around to catch her.

She would not faint! _She would not!_

Determined, she breathed in through her nose and out through her mouth, drawing in deep breaths very rhythmically and steadily as she forced herself to once more confront the reality of his face—_his wretched face_!

"It's—it's not your face, it's just—it's a lot to take in and a lot of bl—blood, Erik." she breathed, "And you _know_ how I am about blood." Smiling gently, she met his eyes. They were red-rimmed, his lashes spiked. Her heart in her throat, she continued, "It's just a lot of blood and a little skin and bit of mask."

Continuing to breathe calmly, Christine once more raised her hand slowly to his face.

At the first touch, his eyes closed, his jaw clenched tight.

"Alright. Did you use any special adhesive so that your mask would stay put?"

His jaw locked tight, he grit, "Yes, Erik did."

"And did you design it yourself?" she continued to feel around the jagged edges of the torn remainder of the mask forcing herself to look and to accept.

"Yes, it is a non-water soluble epoxy agent that is activated when heated."

Christine forced herself to look past the blood, past the hanging flaps of skin and mask. "Okay, I caught that it is activated when heated. How do you remove it when you take it off?"

"Erik _never_ takes off his mask, Christine. It stays on at all times."

She tilted her head to one side in thought, "Yes, but how do you avoid infection?"

His eyes shot open, "Erik's face _is_ an infection! When the mask begins to come loose, Erik reapplies the epoxy-agent."

"But how do you clean…?" she shook her head. "Okay, never mind. So you reapply the glue and it adheres to your face because of your body's heat." She tilted her head to the side, now able to study his face with a clinical detachment.

Lost in thought, she missed the moment he looked back at her incredulously; the moment he realized she was looking at his face unflinching, that she was not reviled, or disgusted.

"umm…kay. So your body heat strengthens the bond. But add too much heat—like say, the heat from an explosion—and it melts the mask and causes the glue to become super sticky, right?" She bit her lip, looking into his eyes for approval.

Finally, she registered his wide-eyed stare. Blinking, he could only nod.

She narrowed her eyes, "Do you happen to have any of the epoxy- glue stuff on hand?"

He looked at her in amazement, "In Erik's coat pocket." he muttered, mystified.

Christine looked around the barn, searching for it, realizing at once that yes, they were indeed in an abandoned barn. And while looking, she found an old rain barrel filled with water and proceeded to wash her bloodied hand.

Still, she couldn't find his coat. "Erik, where…?"

"Christine."

She looked up at him, and he looked pointedly down her front and then back up at her.

"Oh." she blushed, realizing she was still wearing the thing!

She began searching his outer pockets, finding an assortment of thin pronged metal instruments that each had different metal tips, but no tin of glue. She searched the other pocket and found a thin wire-type substance wrapped in a loop. It almost felt like piano wire.

She set this and each of the items she found on a bale of moldering hay.

"Inside pocket, Erik's little Pandora."

She looked up at him curiously; his Voice was certainly calmer than it had been.

In fact, he sounded _almost_ normal...

She began to search his lapel. Another long string of piano wire. Did he expect to constantly need to tune a piano?! Shoe string? A stick of flint and one of charcoal. All of it also going on the hay bale. She felt in the pocket of his other lapel: a bunch of tightly wound candy wrappers?

Did Erik have a sweet tooth?

Honestly, she really didn't picture him the type…

Looking at him curiously, she reached to place them on the bale and accidentally dropped one.

Christine squealed and ran blindly toward him as it exploded in a brilliant pop of light followed in succession by at least half a dozen others.

As one by one they fell from her trembling fingers.

When things had stopped flashing and popping, she risked a peek up at him from her position buried somewhere near his chest.

He was watching her, an amused expression in his eyes.

And then he took her hand and one by one, he very deliberately removed the remaining wrappers and pocketed them in his coat again securely. He then grabbed her by the lapel of his coat, and dug into a deep pocket she had not yet discovered.

Unerringly, he pulled out the tin of glue and unscrewed the lid. He presented it to her.

Blushing, she laughed nervously, and then dabbed a bit on her finger and after sniffing it, rubbed it around. Immediately, the salve-like glue started to get sticky, trying to bond her two fingers together the more she rubbed. She quickly pulled them apart before it could.

She bit her lip and looked back up at his face, her mind working.

At length, she quirked a small smile. "Have you ever chewed gum, Erik?"

His eyes narrowed as he looked at her, trying to guess her train of thought. "No, Erik never has; it looks to be a disgusting habit."

She nodded, "Oh, it is. But that's practically all Little Jammes does other than dance, you know? Chew gum." She looked at his face pointedly.

He looked back at her, his self-consciousness returning full-force, and his hands rose to cover himself as he turned away from her. He growled, "Get to the point, Christine."

She stopped him from turning, pulling his hands back down in the process. And ushering him to the rain barrel, she began to wash the blood from them as well.

She smiled, "The _point_, Erik, is that she'd be practically bald if we hadn't stumbled upon a trick to get the chewing gum out of her hair. We rubbed ice cubes on it. It hardens the gum, and the gum becomes stiff. Eventually, it just breaks off, leaving the hair mostly intact."

His eyes widened, and she nodded. "If we could just find some ice, then perhaps...?"

He hugged her quickly to him. "Perhaps, Erik's little Pandora. Perhaps."

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"What battle did you get hurt in again?"

"Tunisia, Christine. France is currently occupying Tunisia. And it is not a battle." Christine finished tying the make-shift mask cum bandage around his face, almost blinding him.

He winced.

"Sorry! I'm sorry. Okay, so you are an officer in the French army occupying, _not battling_, Tunisia, and I am your wife that, once she found out you were injured, came rushing to Italy to collect you and see you safely home. Correct?"

"Correct."

She watched as he adjusted the 'bandages' so he could better see. His jaw was clenched so tight; she was certain he had to be in pain.

They had used some of the fabric from her petticoats to wrap his face so that it looked like a fresh injury, completely hidden from view. People would be curious, but they wouldn't pry, especially with the cover story they had concocted.

After leaving the dubious shelter of the decrepit barn, they followed a small dirt road that kept ever widening. Erik pulled her to the side as they heard a cart approach.

"Remember what Erik told you, Christine."

She nodded as they waiting for the cart to roll by.

It pulled to a halt beside them.

"Good afternoon," the man spoke to them in Italian. Erik answered him in kind sounding exactly like a native to Christine's, by then, well-trained ear. The man introduced himself and doffed his cap to them, asking where they were headed.

Erik explained their cover story, drawing Christine close to him and hiding their left hands lest the man check for rings. He continued that they were hoping to make their way to Rome and from Rome onward to their home in France. Their things having already been sent on ahead via a post chase, he explained that his train tickets from Rome back to their home in France expire in two days time, and they were having to travel on foot due to the horse they were riding drawing up lame.

The Italian man proclaimed it, "Sfortuna." and proceeded to make a sign with his hands that Christine mentally translated to 'Italian man warding off the evil eye'. She looked up at Erik as he watched the man steadily, his hand buried casually in the pocket of his coat... in the pocket that held the length of piano wire…

Narrowing her eyes, Christine studied him curiously.

The man nodded, and rubbed the back of his neck. "I am not going to Rome, but I am travelling toward a village that has carriages you may hire." He nodded, "I would be happy to give you and your wife a ride in my cart."

Erik nodded, removing his hand from his lapel and helping to load her into the cart; she noticed that his hand never strayed far from his pocket, nor did his eyes ever leave that of the man's back.

As they rolled on, she pursed her lips together, losing herself in her thoughts.

Erik's face.

It did disturb her, especially how he cut into it—was willing and able to do so— but the initial revulsion his deformity had caused her was no longer present.

She had had time, had she not, to come to terms with that face, and the man behind it? Almost seven months had passed since the night of the fire. Months of servitude and humility, of near death and despair. Of being rescued by Erik, being cared for and pampered by him. And in turn, challenging him, and teasing him—

She smiled to herself. If she didn't know any better, she would say they were well on their way to becoming friends.

And then, of course, there was that kiss they shared…

_And just what thoughts has Christine been thinking to cause such a beautiful smile to trip past her lips? _

She looked right at him, squinting in the afternoon sun. He hadn't said a word, just continued to steadily watch the man who was driving the cart. And yet, she knew he had uttered those words for her alone.

_Ventriloquism_, he had called it that night so long ago. _Being able to speak from the belly. _

Smiling again, she drew closer to him and laid her head on his shoulder; his slight sigh the only acknowledgement she needed that she did indeed affect him the same way he affected her.

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"Erik, this is trespassing!"

"Quiet, Christine."

"Erik! This is wrong!"

He looked up from his crouched position before the restaurant's lock. "Christine, we've been through this. This restaurant, like many in Italy, serves gelato. Gelato is made from ice. Erik needs ice. They have it. Now _quiet_!" She watched as he worked two of the thin metal instruments she had found in his outside pocket in the lock and then she heard a click.

The door swung open.

Her mouth opened without a sound. Erik had just picked the lock! Those, those metal instruments were the tools of lock-pickers… and thieves!

Grabbing a reluctant Christine by the arm, he led her into the darkened restaurant's interior. She involuntarily shivered. This was the first time she had set foot in one since her arrest and sickness.

Unerringly, he led her back to the kitchen, and then he commenced searching for the icebox. He soon found it and pulled the block of ice out. Lighting a match, and then a lamp, he gave her a penetrating stare, "Christine will eat something while we're here. You have not had a meal since before the explosion. Erik does not want you to relapse into sickness."

She shook her head, "No, Erik! That's stealing, and it's wrong!"

She could have sworn he rolled his eyes at her as he murmured. "Erik is beginning to see how Christine almost starved to death." Searching further, he discovered a wheel of cheese, a bottle of wine, and a loaf of bread. He passed them to her, and taking out his wallet, he placed a large wad of lira on the table for her to see. "There, now Erik has paid them more than generously for Christine's meal and the ice he is to use. _Now eat_!"

Hesitantly, she did so, not realizing until she was halfway through the loaf and making a good dent into the cheese just how hungry she was. Meanwhile, she watched as Erik began chipping off large bits of ice and holding them to his face.

He hissed, cursing under his breath.

"What is it, what's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong, Christine. The ice is just salted."

"Salted?"

"Yes, salted. In order to make their gelato, they put salt on the ice to make the freezing point colder." he explained patiently.

"But then that means—"

"Yes. Erik is rubbing salt into his wounds; the irony has not escaped him." he assured.

No longer hungry, Christine went over to assist him, chipping off her own chunk of ice and holding it gently to the other side of his face. When the ice became too cold for her hand, she ripped another part of her petticoat, and used the material for a towel.

She noticed his eyes were shut tight, his jaw clenched.

She wished there was something she could do to take his mind off it…anything! "You know, Erik, have I ever told you the story of the Dryad Queen and her Angel of Music?"

He opened his eyes and looked up at her. He murmured, "No, you never have."

She dimpled at him, exchanging the now melted ice chips for more. "That's good, because I am just now composing it. Lie back, A_nge_." And she took over holding ice on his face while he lay back and listened to her tale.

As she spoke, she cautiously began picking at the remains of the mask with the tips of her nails, mentally holding her breath that this would work.

Making sure the small area she was testing was good and cold, she pulled… and part of the mask broke away just like Jammes' gum! Inwardly crowing, she tried to keep her voice steady as she continued her story's telling for she didn't want to give him false hope, should this not work after all…

In listening to her, his jaw relaxed as did the tightness around his eyes. He lay there, hopefully lost in the world she wove, and hopefully not paying her ministrations to him a bit of mind.

As she worked closer and closer to his nasal cavity, she was able to peal larger and larger chunks of the mask away until all that remained was the small flap of skin at his cheek; the one that had the mask still attached. The one that he had tried to cut away and that still made her weak-kneed to look upon.

Mentally girding her loins, Christine gently took the piece of masked skin in hand, and applied the salted ice, freezing it. A few seconds later, the final piece of mask slid free leaving the thin layer of delicate skin hanging loosely.

She smiled relieved, concluding, "…and the once unappreciative Dryad Queen, who had learned a great many lessons while on her own, was restored safely, thanks to her Angel of Music, to her Ancient Oak Tree, where she and her Angel continued to live in harmony." She drew close to him, and whispered in his ear, "And never did the Dryad Queen want to leave her _Ange_ or her Oaken kingdom _ever_ again."

And she kissed his freshly unmasked cheek.

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Erik opened his eyes to the feel of his Angel's lips on his face—_his real face_.

Eyes wide, he turned his head to study her, and Christine in turn studied him.

Slowly, he raised his hands and felt the evidence for himself. Christine had done it! She had removed all of his mask…which left his deformity fully bared before her.

Quickly, he turned away.

"Nuh-uh-uh, Erik. None of that. We are past masks and shadow-games, are we not _Ange_?"

Her cool fingers once more rested on his forehead and cheek; he felt her breath tickle the sides of his neck. He closed his eyes, shuddering to his core in the pleasure of having her so near. Did his little innocent know, did she even guess the effect she was having on him?

"I guess we should wrap your face back up in bandages…which probably wouldn't be too bad an idea considering the cuts…" she reached to tear more linen from her petticoat. His lips twitched. If she kept doing that, his little Pandora soon wouldn't have a stitch left on underneath.

He smiled to himself, keeping his own council on the subject.

"Oh! Did you know that salt water, in some cultures, is considered a curative for cuts and scrapes? It's apparently great for cleaning them ou—"

"There's not enough salt on this Earth, Christine…" he murmured, taking the make-shift bandages from her hands and continuing to roll them on, applying them tighter than his Christine was wont to do.

Once he was finished, she hugged him to her, "Aww, don't say that!", and Erik closed his eyes as the sensation of being held _and comforted_ in her arms registered anew. He felt her shrug, "That wasn't where I was going with it at any rate. I was just thinking it fortunate that the fresh cuts you made to your face were bathed in salt water. I mean, I know it really hurt at the time, but maybe it will lessen or perhaps even eliminate infection, you know, …later on when they start to heal."

He kissed her. There were some moments that he just _had_ to kiss her.

His blood humming, he pulled back slightly to study her expression. His little innocent was wide-eyed and grinning up at him.

"Wha—what was that for?"

"Does Erik need a reason to kiss his Christine?" he replied, taking a step forward and drawing her once more into his arms. His eyes narrowed, "Is Christine needing an excuse to be kissed by Erik?"

She really was the most fetching when she blushed. "No. No excuse, it's just… could you do it again?"

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_**A/N**_: This chapter really was so much fun to pen! What say you, dear reader, of the ingenuity of our little ingénue? Do tell me what you think, won't you?

As an aside, _**Happy Birthday Pineapple3000!**_ You gave the authoress some well-placed advice, and I do hope this chapter update will do in lieu of a gift :D

Also, FantomPhan33 helped make the last chapter more cohesive with her brilliant questions and attention to detail. Ladies thank you so much for your reviews!

And finally, I will be updating from here on in pretty much every other day. The initial blitz of creation is over and my muse has settled down contented to watch from the corner as I patiently hammer away at the keys.

So the next update for _T&A_ will be this Wednesday.

Happy reading,

_**DGM **_


	18. Needs Must When the Devil Drives

Part XVIII: Needs Must When the Devil Drives

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"Come, my dear. It is far and away time for us to go."

Christine looked around the dark restaurant. Forty hours. It was going on forty hours since she had last gotten any sleep.

Suddenly, she felt the events of the last two days catch up with her with blinding speed. Her limbs felt heavy, her eyelids felt heavy; even her individual follicles of hair felt heavy!

Oh! She needed a bed and soon!

But wait!

Where was Erik leading them? Not protesting, but still curious, she blearily followed along shuffling in his wake as he led her to the root cellar of the restaurant, and then from the there out into the street at the side of the building.

They walked perhaps four or five blocks. Christine lost count; the only measure, the rhythm of Erik's footsteps alongside her own and punctuated by her frequent yawns. Cutting her eyes to the side, she noticed he was visually checking each window for something. Then finally, they stopped in front of a store-front that was a general store specializing in sundries.

Without hesitation, Erik began to pick the lock.

"ERIK!" A dog began to howl at her outburst.

_Remember rule number one, Christine. Now quiet!_

His attention had not left the lock, but she heard his every enunciated word. To her annoyance and stupefaction, he had mesmerized her once more so that she couldn't speak. She tapped him on the shoulder—hard!

_Christine, so help Erik! He will render you insensate, he vows he will if you keep pushing him!_

Click.

The door opened with a squeak of hinges.

Pushing up on the door, Erik quickly stopped the noise and gestured that she enter before him.

She shook her head, pointedly refusing.

He tapped her once on her forehead, and whispered something softly in her ear.

The next thing she knew, she was being lifted over his shoulder and carried forcibly into the building.

He sat her down near the coat closet, and she drew breath to give him an ear-full when she realized two things: one—she still couldn't talk. She literally could not make a sound, and two— he had paralyzed her. He had finally done it! She couldn't move from the spot he placed her in. Not even the position!

She stared daggers at him with her eyes.

He ignored her, helping himself to all the shop had to offer.

Grabbing three suitcases, he began packing them full with ready-to-wear clothing, toiletries, blankets, medicinal powders, and foodstuffs. He also grabbed a roll of gauze-like material suitable to make more 'bandages', a packet of round, yellow sponges, and some kind of essential oil. He ended it all by grabbing a wide-brimmed hat and placing it over his head to better hide his bandaged face from view.

Christine felt a strange sense of déjà vu watching him thusly. He turned his back on her, and she shivered; his phantom persona coming to life truly for the first time since this entire escapade in Italy began.

He stalked over to her with suitcases in tow, for with that hat on, that is exactly what it looked like—stalking— and again pointedly showing her a wad of bills, he placed them under the register where the proprietor would be sure to notice tomorrow morning.

And then he was leaning in close to her and whispering something—something she couldn't make out—and then she was following him! Following him calmly out the door! He shut the door with nary a sound, how he stopped it from squeaking she didn't have a clue, but then he was manipulating the locking mechanism again, and there was a click as the tumbler rolled over.

Not even bothering to see if she _still_ followed him, he began walking again. And Christine began to walk directly along behind him like he was some demented Pied Piper!

She may just kill him for this! She really just might. And it would be justifiable, she was sure, under any court of law. Have one woman on that jury, and she was certain to be set free!

He gestured that she halt and she immediately did so; not because she had any kind of voluntary response, but because he had gestured for it to be so. "Erik and Christine need a place to stay for the night, but anywhere in this village would ask too many questions. Christine, Erik is going to procure a horse and buggy."

By _procure_, did he mean—?! Her eyes widened, and she began once more to struggle in earnest. "Relax, Christine. Relax. Erik is going to _buy_ them, never fear."

Yes, but was he going to buy them or _buy_ them as he had been doing? Horse thievery was an offense that was capital in France. She could only imagine the same to be true in Italy… and they were in a very small village…

In no time at all, Erik was leading a pair of dappled grey ponies tied to a box cart up to her. She looked behind him to where a stable boy that couldn't have been more than twelve if he was a day was holding up a large wad of bills and waving them in her direction. "You see, Christine? Erik bought them fair and square." He gave a wave to the lad, who was once more waving the bills enthusiastically, and the young boy went back into the stable, counting them.

Christine could only narrow her eyes in disgust.

He shrugged, "Needs Must, Christine. Now up you get, my dear." He lifted her and sat her down on the leather-padded bench. Leaping spryly, himself, he followed suit.

With a cluck of his tongue, they were off, leaving the small village like the thieves in the night they were.

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"If Erik allows Christine the use of her voice and body, Christine will behave, yes? And not try to run away?"

They had been travelling for miles! Miles! And Christine could only stare daggers at the dark scenery surrounding them, too furious to even nod.

"Christine, acknowledge your Erik."

The moon could be seen high in the sky tonight, casting its cool, remote light over the smooth mountain road. The road was a ribbon of moonlight, and she chose to focus her attention on it and not the man currently holding her body captive.

He snapped his fingers right next to her ear, and she felt that stealing paralysis leave her limbs and vocal chords.

Still, she didn't say a word.

"… … … Erik's Christine _is_ able to speak now."

He waited.

… … _Erik's Christine can move as well. _He Voiced this in her ear enticingly as the snake must have done to Eve.

She slowly turned to face him, and narrowed her eyes, "Erik's Christine is mad as hell at him and does not want to _talk_ or _move_! Oh! Pull over!" Not giving him a choice but to comply, she hiked up her skirts and darted over the running board to the back of the buggy, stumbling slightly in her haste.

Immediately the horses slowed as he stopped them in front of a copse of trees. Taking full advantage of their reduced speed, she began searching through the suitcases until she found a few of the blankets he had purchased. She then wrapped one around herself, and lay down stiffly in the back of the buggy on the others, giving him the cold shoulder.

She closed her eyes.

"But, of course, Erik's Christine is exhausted and would like her rest. Naturally, he will join her in a moment once he's seen to the horses."

She murmured something extremely uncomplimentary about what he could do once he had seen to the horses.

_Such language, mademoiselle_, he tutted for her ears alone. _Some day soon you will have to tell Erik where you picked up such a colorful vocabulary_. She felt the buggy move slightly, and then they were backing up deeper into the trees and away from the main road.

And then he was in the buggy with her, and she felt him lay down right beside her; her eyes shot open. He took the two blankets she was using for a pillow and placed them under _his_ head, and then he was moving her until his arm was surrounding her.

She grew rigid with fury, and just as she was drawing breath to give him an earful, he spoke, "Erik would unbundle you as well, mademoiselle, but he quite likes having you so neatly packaged." So saying, he pulled her over until she fit securely tucked to his side.

Christine choked in outrage, trying to get out of the blanketed cocoon of her own devising. With his arm around her impeding her progress, she couldn't move.

She had been hoist by her own petard.

She waited until all was quiet and still, and then she whispered, "Some day, some day soon, Erik dear, _I_ am going to have the last laugh."

His reply fell upon her ear like a kiss, _Erik doesn't doubt it, my sweet. Erik doesn't doubt it._

She knew he was grinning.

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_**A/N:**_ hmm…such a clever, tricksy character that Erik… And well, Hell Hath No Fury…. until Friday, dear readers.

_**DGM**_


	19. To Tell the Truth and Shame the Devil

XIX: To Tell the Truth and Shame the Devil

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Christine awoke to the sun-dappled morning.

She looked over, Erik was still asleep, his arm and chest still her pillow, the bandages shielding both his face and eyes from the morning sun. She squirmed, feeling the call of nature most profoundly.

His arms tightened on her, holding her still. "Erik has _purchased_ some Medicated Paper should Christine need to use the outdoor facilities."

She simultaneously blushed due to his words and melted slightly due to his tone.

She had never heard his Voice just after waking—but only one word suited it—_gruff_. It was filled with morning gruff, and she shivered, unconsciously drawing closer to him, praying he would speak more…

He didn't.

With a mumbled oath of _purchased my ass_, she wriggled, kicking her feet until they were free of the blanket. Then, finally! Finally, she was able to extricate herself from the thing and then from him.

Never again.

Never again would she do that to herself! From now on, Erik slept under the blanket with her.

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Secretly, Erik watched her go, a small smile forming on his lips.

Never had he imagined she would be comfortable enough in his presence to look at his face without flinching, let alone touch and care for it the way she had! Last night, she had peeled bit after bit of the melted mask away, and he had never even felt her do it, as engrossed in her story as he had been. As deft and light her touch! And then she had kissed his cheek—his bared deformity— and smiled.

And her care of him—her tender words and thought-filled care!

Overcome, he had kissed her. And received the surprise of his life when his Christine dared to ask for another.

He vowed to himself then and there that it wouldn't happen again, not until his little innocent had her choices fully restored her.

Would that his Christine chose to be with him _because she wanted to _be, not per necessity! His hands involuntarily clenched.

Right now, she _needed_ him.

Circumstance were such that she needed him to assure her safe return to Rome.

But what then? What happened then?

Drawing a steadying breath, his expression softened as he thought of her reactions last night, and he grinned slightly to himself.

It _had_ been amusing—besting her time and again. But she was so incredibly honest and forthright, he had been compelled to mesmerize her in order to gain her compliance!

And then her expression!

Her expression when he had done so, paralyzing her vocal chords and fixed her to one spot; it was priceless! Priceless!

Never had he seen his mild-mannered girl look murderous. _Never._

…until that moment. He chuckled lowly to himself. But his Christine could be a little spit-fire when she was riled: vowing that someday, someday soon she would have the last laugh indeed.

Would that were to be so!

He heard her as she once more approached the buggy; his thoughts quickly dispelling.

After all, they hadn't made it out of the woods yet, and Rome was still yet a ways away.

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"So, where are we going now?"

"Back to Rome. The daroga awaits us there with more supplies. And Erik's spare mask."

"Is it just like the flesh-colored one?"

"No. It is Erik's black mask. Erik will need more time and resources in order to create another. By the way, my dear, what has Christine done with her key?"

"hmm… key? What key?" Christine looked around blankly as if it were suddenly missing.

"Yes, the key that led you to Erik; the key that Erik had told you to keep on your person at all times!" he chided.

"Key?" she puzzled, and then it dawned, "_The key_! Oh, Erik, my key! And the—!" she paled, her eyes going wide, "The mirror box!"

She looked up at him, stricken.

Pulling up on the reins, he stopped the horses and turned to face her, "Tell me, Christine, you were able to find the mirror box? Erik sent it earlier via post specifically so that Christine would have it—" he noticed the look on her face, "— would this, by chance, have anything to do with your exploits in Rome?"

She bit her lip, looking very uncertain.

He once more put his thumb on her lip, massaging the tender flesh she so liked to abuse. He leaned towards her, watching her steadily, "You have not yet told Erik exactly what happened, my dear." he whispered. "Would you do so now?"

She looked up at him and swallowed; his eyes held no judgment, no censure; just a willingness to get to the truth.

She pursed her lips together and took a deep breath.

And reaching for his hand, she began, "You gave me the letter for Signore Davide and told me where to go."

Erik nodded.

"But once I arrived, and I saw La Carlotta and Piangi in attendance, when I saw the reaction of that man's—Signore Davide— to your letter…Erik, I couldn't give it to him.

He closed his eyes as his jaw tightened. "Christine, why couldn't you give it to him?" His Voice sounded pained.

She bit her lip, "Because I was afraid you had blackmailed him, Erik! I was afraid that you had or were threatening to do something—something horrible to him! It's not exactly out of the realms of imagination for me think that way, is it, _Ange_?"

His eyes shot open, and he looked at her directly; that pained expression still present. "Signore Davide owes Erik a great deal of money." His lips drew together in a fine line. "He, in point of fact, owes Erik for the very opera house in which he now draws his income. As do Moncharmin and Richard, my dear. It was written in their contract, clear as day, when they signed their acceptance of Erik's terms and conditions."

Her eyes grew wide, "Are you telling me you're the owner of not one but two opera houses?"

He sighed, massaging the space between his eyes through the bandages, "More akin to financial backer in times of hardship. Now, just _what_ was Davide's reaction when you handed him the letter?"

She looked uncertain. "I never did. I—I just couldn't hand it to him."

He threw up his hands.

"Erik, he was white as a sheet and trembling just from looking at the seal! How could I do that to him? _Really_. For all I knew, that letter of yours could have killed him with shock—he really is such a frail-looking old man! And we do need to improve the way you approach people and ask them for things."

He looked at her, his mouth agog.

At length, he ground, "_That last letter_, Mademoiselle Daae, was a boon to him for accepting you so kindly and giving you a position at the _Alighieri_. In exchange for a three and a half percent cut of the box office take each night that you performed—which by the way would have gone directly into your pocket, my dear— he was to have made you his prima donna and his debt to Erik would have been forgiven.

"And _this_, Mademoiselle Daae, would thereby have left the _Alighieri_ Opera free and clear, no longer levied by Erik, but _owned_ by Davide once more."

She winced at his caustic tone.

He then laughed bitterly, "_And_ he was getting the greatest soprano the world has ever heard!" Throwing up his hands once more to the sky, he exclaimed to the heavens, "_Quite the bargain_! Quite the bargain indeed!"

She bit her lip and studied a cypress tree with great fascination, trying very hard not to cry.

She wouldn't. …she wouldn't. …she wou—

"Oh, do come here, my dear." His arms wound round her, and she broke, the dam of tears she was holding in, falling free.

"Oh, bu—but I've made su—such a-a mess of e—everyth-ing!" she wailed to his lapel.

"Shh-shh, Christine," he soothed, "it will be alright! It will, my dear, _it will_!"

She shook her head frantically, "How? I've—_We've_— worked so-o ha—hard and I doh—don't even kn-know if I ca—can sing any-more!"

Her voice was high, her face turning puce, and her tears scalding down her cheeks, "I ma-may no lo-longer be the gre-greatest sop-rano the wo-world has ever heard!" she wailed.

"Christine."

"A—and th—then what?! Wha—what will I do, Erik? _What_?!"

"_Christine_."

"If this experience has tau-taught me anything, it's that I'm completely useless if I cannot si—"

"_**CHRISTINE**_!" Erik roared, cutting off her words and scaring a flock of birds into flight.

She jumped.

"You are letting your worries and doubts get the best of you. You are on the mend, and Erik has been keeping close watch of your progress and couldn't be more pleased considering." He paused and met her stare unblinking. "Now, as for you being useless without your voice…"

Christine gulped.

His Voice picked up that razor-edge quality to it that imprinted his next words to her skull for all time, "_**If Erik ever hears another statement such as this trip past your lips, Mademoiselle, he will not be held responsible for his actions!**__**You are the gift, Christine. You. Not your Voice**__. End of discussion._"

She nodded once, and he blinked, relaxing his posture slightly until he had his arm around her. "So, _La Daae_, draw deep, focused breaths, calm down, and _finish. your. tale_. You have yet to tell Erik how it is exactly you ended up as you did."

He left his arm around her, and she leaned into his embrace, following his instructions until she felt a semblance more calm.

At length, she began, "His name was Gasparo, and he met me as I was leaving the _Alighieri_…"

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"And this—this man, he and his mother still have your box?"

Christine looked up from her position leaning against his shoulder. She felt wrung-out, dry and limp. But oddly free, as if by telling Erik everything that had happened, her worries and her doubts, she had released the final demon plaguing her.

She nodded.

"_**Good**_."

Jarred somewhat by his tone, she looked up.

Immediately, she shivered, knowing that look for exactly what it was; for even though she had seen it only once before in the house by the underground lake, it was unforgettable. It was the look of the Phantom at his most methodically murderous.

It was the look that promised retribution. It promised revenge.

It was the look of Death.

She gulped, "You aren't thinking of kill—"

Looking down at her, he blinked, and it was gone.

"—Christine still has yet to answer the question of her missing key. Where is it, my dear?" he broke in, deftly changing the subject. With a cluck and a tap of the reins, the horses began to trot once more.

"Well, that's just it. It's still in my trunk at the train station. I never was able to collect my things, and so, supposedly, it should still be there." She shrugged and bit her lip.

"And you're telling Erik, that in all this time, with everything you went through, you didn't think to tell this man about the trunk in hopes he would exchange the trunk for the remainder of your debt? Not that he would have accepted it having such prospering talent in his grasp."

She shook her head. "He wouldn't let me leave, Erik! He kept threatening to summon the police. And I think we've already quite been over how naïve and hopeless I've been at managing my own finances." She sniffed and sat up straighter on the bench seat, no longer touching him. "I know I've been foolish and stupid."

Again, he drew up on the reins so the horses stopped, and catching her stare, held it until he had her complete attention. "Christine, you were taken advantage of my dear. There's a word for what's happened to you: _exploitation_. And it's quite illegal. And yes, you were naïve and it is true, you are not experienced in the world of financial matters. But, my dear, you are young and those are two conditions easily remedied through time."

One corner of his mouth lifted in a smile, "And truthfully, Erik prefers to think of your naivety as a part of your innocent charm, my dear; another facet of your character that enchants him in this cynically weary world."

Drawing her hand to his lips, he kissed it, "But you are far from foolish and definitely not stupid!" He spat the last as if it were a curse. "Erik , he…he protected his Christine for too long. And that fault lies with him, not with you."

She looked at him curiously, not understanding his words.

He explained, "Erik is sorry he was a temperamental, exacting, perfectionist of a bastard that robbed from Christine a very important part of girlhood, and he is entirely to blame for the situation in which she found herself."

"Wha—?" her eyes narrowed not seeing the connection.

He sighed, again rubbing that spot between his eyes at the bridge of his nose, "Christine, describe for Erik your routine upon waking at the _Populaire_."

She smiled slightly, "I was kept employed morning, noon, and night. My every waking thought was filled with music."

"Correct. And what of the other girls—Mademoiselle Giry and the rest?"

"Well, they had lessons with Madam..."

"And did those lessons last all day?"

He was leading her somewhere, but for the life of her she didn't have a clue where it was. "No. They had time in between classes and performances. Some occasional days off..." She shrugged.

"Yes, Christine. _Days off_. Now, name _one day_ your _Angel of Music _gave you to spend as you chose."

She drew breath to refute the point, but drew up short. She looked up at him blinking.

He nodded, "Precisely. When the other girls would go out to buy fripperies and frocks, mingle with their beaus and meet others that were, perhaps outside the world of the Populaire, you did not, Christine.

"You did not because you had voice lessons! You had voice lessons, sometimes morning, noon, and night, with a very temperamental, exacting, perfectionist of a _celestial being_ whom you did not wish to disappoint…Is Erik incorrect?"

After absorbing his words, she shook her head.

"Erik may have kept you shielded from the world, my dear, but he also did you a great disservice by it. And for this, mademoiselle, he is to blame for the situation in which you have found yourself."

She shook her head, "Erik, that's ridiculous! If anyone's to blame it's me. I stubbornly chose to go my own way. I didn't follow through with any of your directives."

She grinned slightly and held up her hand, "However, in my defense, I really do think we need to work on how you approach others when you issue requests. After all, if Signore Davide hadn't reacted the way he had to your letter…" she grinned and bumped shoulders with him.

Shaking his head at her, he clucked to the horses, and they were once more rolling along. It wasn't perhaps five minutes later that the wind changed, and a flock of birds took wing from the trees, and Erik pulled up on the reigns once more, slowing their pace.

"At this rate, Erik, we're never going to get to Ro—"

_Hush_.

It was a command she didn't think to disobey. She turned her head sharply, looking up at him, a question in her eyes, but then she saw his eyes widen minutely.

And then he was jumping down from the buggy and releasing the horses. And Christine could only stare in wide-eyed disbelief.

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_**A/N**_: Dun dun dun…

Please remember if you aren't signed in, the authoress cannot reply back to your reviews. And I love replying back!

_**DGM**_


	20. Raise the Devil

XX: Raise the Devil

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Christine watched incredulous as their horses began to gallop away.

Motioning for her to be silent, Erik listened. And then everything happened very quickly.

He grabbed her, and setting her from the buggy, ordered, "Change your shoes to boots, Christine. And put on trousers." He threw a bundle at her feet, and then he was rummaging through the suitcases not seeing if she complied.

He still seemed to be in control, but Christine could practically feel the tension radiating from him.

She hastened to do as bid.

And then they were leaving, walking quickly away from the buggy, and it was all she could do to keep up with his stride without developing that horrid cough.

He seemed to be looking for something. And it was, to her, what felt like miles before he found it: a small forest clearing surrounded by tall trees.

Finding a suitably deep thicket at the edge of the clearing, he had her crouch down low in the brush, hiding herself, and then he was moving behind her.

And they waited.

Christine did not know what for, but she instinctively knew now was not the time to ask. His hands tensed minutely where they held her shoulders, and then there was a trampling sound through the trees.

One horse broke free of the clearing, then two, then three…they just kept coming!

Christine gasped, and Erik clapped his hand over her mouth, shaking his head.

His Voice commanded her _Not one word, Christine. And should Erik tell you 'Run', Run! _

She nodded frantically.

"C'mon. We've tracked him this way. The kid in that village said the bastard's travelin' with some little bird. We found their horses, and without those, they couldn't have gotten far!"

Erik drew her closer to him as she began to shake.

She counted.

There had to be seven men—all on horse-back. And all of them had guns—some of them more than one!

And now, these armed men were in the middle of nowhere looking for _them_, and Christine watched in terror as one of the men dismounted and began tracking for prints.

"Look, there's the lady's prints there." the man spat, pointing; he drew closer to where she and Erik hid.

Her heart in her throat, she reached blindly behind her for Erik's reassuring presence.

_He wasn't there!_

Frantically, she looked around, her eyes searching for him; he was nowhere to be seen!

Desperately, she began scanning the trees, searching for him; straining her vision for a shadow in black amidst the browns and greens of their surroundings.

And she only _just_ spotted him, waiting motionless and ever-watchful alongside a large tree; staring straight at her, he gestured for her to stay where she was and stay quiet.

She nodded.

Hidden as she was in the brush, she watched as he moved silently, creeping up behind the man that had dismounted and wandered furthest from his group in order to track them.

Her eyes grew wide.

She clapped her own hand against her mouth as Erik took the piano string from his pocket and threw it around the man's neck.

He pulled it taut, and seconds later, the man grew still; Erik silently lowered him to the ground, hiding him in the thicket beside her.

Frozen in stunned disbelief, her mind refusing to accept what she had just witnessed, Christine studied the man dispassionately: his lips were bluish black, his eyes open and bloodshot…

_Erik had_—

"Vincenzo? Vincenzo, where are you?"

Another of the men on horseback came riding to investigate his fellow's disappearance.

Christine looked around, searching through the trees; Erik had once again disappeared. "Vincen—_gluck_." The man made a grab for his throat, and Christine saw Erik's wire was already drawn taut.

It was too late.

In horrified fascination, she watched as Erik pulled sharply on the wire, dragging the would-be assassin from his horse and cleanly breaking the man's neck in the fall.

She blinked. And again, she lost sight of him among the trees.

There were a few loud pops, and she recognized those as being from the candy wrappers in his pocket. Bright flashes of light appeared in the clearing, and a few of the horses reared and shied away, dispersing in fright.

"Steady, steady!" One of the men yelled, grabbing for the pistol he had on hip. "It's just part of that bastard's tricks. He's here! Get your guns read—"A wire shot out from the branch of a tree above, and wrapped around the speaking man's neck. Clutching vainly at his throat, the man's legs tightened and kicked on the horse's stirrups.

Rearing, the horse bolted, and the man was left dangling from the tree, writhing and kicking until he kicked no more.

They drew their guns, the four remaining men huddling their horses together a protective circle within the clearing. The phrase 'circling the wagons' came unbidden to Christine's mind. She saw their hands were less than steady, the muzzle of their guns shaking with fear.

All was quiet in the clearing for even the birds had ceased their song, and not a single shot had yet been fired.

"Christ!" one of the muttered, "There's only two of 'em! And one's supposed to be a harmless bit of fluff." he scoffed, risking a look at his hanged comrade still swinging from the tree. He spat, "Whatever Lazzaro's paying us, _amico_, it's not worth it! We need to lea—"

"Quiet!" another barked, "Someone's comin'. Do you here that?"

Christine strained her hearing as well, and her eyes went wide. Quickly, she clapped her hands over her ears, recognizing the sound for exactly what it was.

It was Erik's siren Voice, meant to lure and enthrall!

She began humming under breath in order to try and counter it.

The siren's Voice _appeared_ before the remaining four men, urging them, calling for them to dismount and follow his Voice. One by one, they began to do so, and Christine fought against the need to rise from her secluded spot and _follow them_.

The siren's Voice enthralled, "_Lay down your weapons, you are men of peace. That's right. There's no need for them here. Not in this place. Good, very good!_ _And_ _Kneel. Yes, kneel before the_ _Angel of Death_."

She steeled herself to watch him—forced herself to observe— as still lilting his enchanting melody, he killed man after man using some kind of choking maneuver. And all of them were going to their deaths as unresisting sheep to the slaughter.

And at that moment, the moment Erik began to strangle the sixth, it became abundantly clear to Christine that even though there were more of them, and they had had more advanced weaponry and horses, these men were hopelessly outmatched! And as she watched him, she recalled Monsieur Khan's words:_ you must accept the wicked as well as the divine_.

For with his flashes of light and piano wire, with his ventriloquism, and choking strength, Erik had soon rendered them all, _all but one_, dead.

And _that_ man was looking up at him adoringly, waiting patiently for death. Christine realized that this was the man that had wanted to abandon his orders, to leave the clearing, and to stop hunting them.

Bending low, Erik whispered softly to the man in Italian, and Christine caught two words: _Death_ and _Coming_. And then he gave the man a sharp tap on the forehead and snapped his fingers.

The man blinked, coming out of his trance, looking around in horrified shock, his mouth opened and closed working to form some nameless sound.

Erik pointed.

Nodding, the man took off running in the direction Erik indicated never once looking back.

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Christine looked around the clearing and closed her eyes; there were bodies everywhere. For the most part, it was bloodless, but… she gulped, shakily rising from her crouched position.

He had killed them so quickly!

He was removing the saddles from two of the dead men's horses, cinching them to the dappled grays; his posture was ram-rod straight as were his next words:

"Well, well, my dear. You were privileged to see the _Angel of Death_ at work today; few have done so and lived to tell the tale."

Christine gulped, taking a deep breath to calm her racing heart. He sounded completely and lethally _calm_. And he had just murdered six me—

"Has Erik disgusted his Christine? Does she wish to never look upon him again now that she has truly seen of what _the Angel of Death_ is capable?"

Was this what he feared? That she would never want to—to see him again?

She cleared her throat, and he turned.

"Th-those men. They were sent to kill you?"

"_Us_, mademoiselle; they were sent to kill _us_." He finished replacing the last bridle on one of the dapple grays and tightened the reins.

"An—And had you not killed them first…?" Christine made her way over to him, carefully skirting around the discarded bodies of men.

He uttered emotionlessly, "We would be dead." He stood stiff, his hands clenched into fists at his side.

She nodded, her throat working through some nameless emotion, just as her mind and heart were trying to reconcile what she felt.

He had killed—killed without a moment's hesitation, killed without remor—

"I'm glad you killed them!" she blurted.

His yellow eyes widened as he looked at her in disbelief.

She nodded. "I—I am, Erik."

And then she was rushing into his arms, and she realized he was trembling.

Surely he had not been frightened from killing those men! Was he trembling because he was frightened of losing her? Was that why he was shaking so? She clung to him, wanting to assure him, wishing she could somehow show him that she wished to remain with him, be a part of him kept hidden and secret and safe…forever.

And then he was bending down and kissing her, _really_ kissing her, and she could only respond by reaching, straining, moving some of the bandage wrappings out of the way so she could better gain access to his lips—his face.

He lifted her, and a moment later she felt something unyielding scrape her back. Mouth still fused with his, she opened her eyes and looked down.

She was feet above the ground, her back pinned against the trunk of a tree. She closed her eyes, losing herself once more in the sensation he was evoking: the feel of him holding her by her rump, squeezing her rounded flesh, mutely urging her to wrap her trouser-clad legs around his hips.

She did so, locking them in place, and he groaned, deepening the kiss, and then he was moving to the side of her neck and nuzzling. He suckled, and she gasped, feeling the urge to rub her lower body against his own.

She did, moving up and down in time with his hands pulsing on her bottom.

His eyes shot open; an instantaneous change overcoming him.

Immediately, he set her down and began putting her clothes to rights. And then he turned and stalked away, leaving her wondering what it was she had done this time to cause such a dire change to come over him.

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"I can't ride without a sidesaddle, Erik."

"Erik knows this Christine, but he wants you to try."

"But Erik, it's undignified!" Christine looked down from where he was crouching by her feet, ready to boost her into the saddle. She shook her head, "I cannot ride astride like a man…it would be—"

He looked up at her, and she could have sworn his lips were twitching. "—undignified. Yes, Erik heard you the first time, my dear."

She sniffed and tilting her nose in the air, turned away from him.

"_Christine_!"

She walked all of two steps before he grabbed her and plopped her onto the saddle. He then leapt up behind her and held her fast, remarking fatalistically, "If the mountain will not come to Mohammed, Christine…" and then he clucked to the horse, and they began to trot, the other following along behind.

She enjoyed being this close to him, practically a part of him, and she was pleased that he respected her wish to not ride astride by keeping her tucked securely in his arms. She looked up and grinned, reaching and straightening one the bandages that had come loose.

He averted his face from her, once more hiding it under the brim of the wide hat, and she sighed, "So, what are we going to do now?"

"Erik is going to take you back to the buggy, Christine, where we are to spend the night." She looked up through the trees. They had perhaps two hours of sunlight left if they were lucky. "And then, tomorrow, we will continue our journey to Rome. We should arrive in another day's travel."

She nodded, leaning back into his chest and yawned.

It had been an exhausting day filled with terror… and she had seen six men lose their lives…

However, try as she might, she just couldn't pity them; they were, after all, hired to kill both her and Erik. And if the choice came down to it, she would rather it be them than her.

Only a slight prick of conscience did she feel at what her Papa would say on the matter. But in the end, she believed her father would have chosen the right to live as well.

Finding a measure of peace with what she'd seen, she let the steady motion of the animal beneath her lull her to sleep while her _Ange_ embraced her securely.

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_**A/N:**_ The authoress raises her head up and blinks myopically..._wha-what day is it?_

She looks around. A layer of dust an inch thick encompasses all but the pristine surface of her monitor and keyboard. _Whaaaaa-?_

_Write_, her muse whispers persuasively.

Somehow, she finds strength to ignore the muse, focusing instead on the devastation, the detritus of diet coke cans and cartons of Chinese take-out littering her lair. She notices one of her cats looking at her_ assessing_; it was not a nice look...

This stated, the authoress is taking a short break from posting to get her house back in order :D She will be back with an update next Sunday, dear readers!

Thank you,

_**DGM**_


	21. A Cold Day in Hell

XXI: A Cold Day in Hell

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She was back against the tree, lifted up off the ground, her back feeling the prickle of bark as she was being held, caressed, and surrounded by him. His arms, his Voice, his touch holding her steadily enthrall.

And then he was kissing her, kissing her neck, humming soft words of encouragement meant only for her ears alone, making her want to—

"_Come, Christine_."

"_ohhmm_, Erik."

"_Awaken, my dear_."

"_ohh_,—"she opened her eyes blearily, "Erik!"

Christine blinked into the late afternoon sun; it seemed they had arrived back to the buggy once more.

_And there was no doubt about it; this time, he was smiling at her. "Did you have a good dream, my sweet?" he asked knowingly._

Mortified, she blushed to the roots of her hair, and biting her lip, looked down.

Taking a finger and placing it under her chin, he raised it until she met his stare. "We've arrived, Christine." he whispered. His eyes were alit with something—some strange burning that had the newly awakened part of her smoldering once more.

Putting his arms around her, he carefully lifted and lowered her from the horse.

The hired men had found the buggy, but other than rummaging through the suitcases and strewing their contents every which way, there didn't seem to be any damage.

Gathering clothes and toiletries, Christine made for a copse of trees to give herself an impromptu sponge bath from some of the water Erik had collected earlier. It had been a long few days, and nap or not, she was exhausted. Wearily, she removed her shirtwaist and masculine trousers piece by piece and began to scrub herself.

Erik had asked if she had had a good dream. What she had dreamt _was not a dream_; not any dream she was used to at any rate.

She continued to clean herself, and thinking back to it caused her to blush anew. And that's when her hand encountered a flood of moisture from her nether region. She panicked, thinking her monthly cycle had started, but investigation by the fading light revealed no, it hadn't.

She was just very moist.

Quickly, she washed and then dried herself, and choosing to forgo the corset, she changed into the ready-to-wear gingham dress that Erik had stolen from the sundry store. But she chose to wear her slippers from the villa instead of the masculine boots he had insisted she wear when they were running from the hired men.

Trousers, she thought, were all well and good, boots too for that matter, but she had quite had enough of looking like a man. Even if the dress she wore was not tailored to fit her feminine shape to within an inch, even if she chose to leave off the numerous undergarments that should, by proprietal dictate, be worn at all times underneath, she was feeling infinitely more herself and was a semblance of clean.

And in this spirit, she made her way back towards the buggy and back to him.

Packing her trousers, toiletries, and boots away, she walked over to where he was waiting for her. And attentively, he helped her climb into the buggy, climbing in after himself.

She looked around.

While she had been bathing and changing, he had busied himself tending to the horses, feeding and brushing them, and he had tied their leads securely to a low-hanging branch which provided them a semblance of shelter and the ability to graze.

"Your dinner, mademoiselle." Erik bowed from the hip and ceremoniously removed a piece of gauzed cloth draped over one of the suitcases.

She clapped as she seated herself on the buggy bench. He had provided them a meal consisting of hardtack crackers, dried beef, and a hard cheese: all provisions from the sundry store. She looked at the lone bottle of wine between them. "What, no wine glasses, Erik? I'm shocked!"

He shrugged, somehow making the movement elegant, and sat on the floor of the buggy, "Even Christine's _Ange_ has limitations."

"Hmm," she dimpled, "I don't know about that… I'm sure if I gave you time enough..." she picked up a bit of beef and barely managed not to wince as she choked it down. Her eyes crinkled as she took a swig of wine straight from the bottle which was, in of itself, a novel experience. Nudging his foot with hers, she confided, "It's marvelous, really. Thank you, _Ange_."

He bit into a piece of dried beef, and winced, taking a deep draught from the bottle as well to wash it down, "Yes, Christine, at _Chez Erik's_, we do aim to please."

"Don't even joke about this being a restaurant, Erik. I swear to you if I ever eat in another one before I die, it will be all too soon!" she cringed and reached for more wine. "I should have learned my lesson the first time when Raoul's sister took me to one." Rolling her eyes, she broke off a hunk of the hard cheese and bit into it. Sitting across from her on the floorboard of the buggy with his knees raised, Erik followed suit.

"And what, pray tell, happened there?"

She swallowed thickly, "She and the two society cows she was with proceeded to order lavishly from the menu and then stick me with the bill." She gestured with a cracker, "Yet another reason to have gladly seen the back of the de Chagny Chateau."

He gestured that she drink more wine, and she did, taking a small sip to wash their dry repast down. But her hunger was sated, and she sat back with a replete sigh, studying him in the last of twilight.

He still wore the wide-brimmed hat. But he had also changed into a ready-to-wear black, button-down shirt that fit his frame loosely and had replaced his bandages with fresh ones using the gauze-like material he had taken. In the fading light, he looked like an artistic rendering she saw once of an oriental man that had a cloth mask covering his entire face save his eyes.

The man had looked lethally dangerous wearing two swords strapped across his back and crouching low for the artist to depict him.

In thinking how Erik had taken down adversary after adversary that afternoon with only his hands and the two lengths of piano wire, Christine reassessed her definition of lethal. Yet instead of this making her feel frightened of him, the knowledge that Erik was _that_ powerful, that incredibly, well… _predatory_, had her feeling … …_safe_.

She smiled slightly as she nodded. Safe was a good word for it.

Safe and cherished, and very much wanting to kiss him some mo—

"Do you regret it, Christine? Regret leaving de Chagny and his name?" His next words jarred her from reverie.

She looked into his eyes, only able to make out their expression because of their peculiar reflective quality in the dying light. They were the only things bared besides a thin line where the folds of bandage separated for his mouth.

She saw his eyes were anxious, uncertain, as he studied her, and she realized what her smile must have meant to him. He thought she was still thinking of Raoul.

"Good grief, No!" she winced, the words had come out much sharper than she intended.

Shaking her head, she explained, "I regret a great many things, _Ange_, but leaving Raoul is not, and will never be, one of them."

She shivered, and picking up one of the blankets, started to wrap it around herself. But remembering how he had neatly played her the night before, she made her way over to him. And seating herself before him, she proceeded to cover the two of them up.

"And, pray tell, what does Mademoiselle Daae think she's about now, hmm?" his hands reached out to tuck the blanket around her shoulders.

"Sharing body warmth, Erik. It's cold!" As if to illustrate her point, the wind picked up, blowing through the trees and had Christine huddling more closely to Erik's chest in order to escape it.

"Erik believes it will probably be damp as well." he stated dryly, looking up at the sky. Just then there was a rumble of thunder in the distance. "And these are two conditions that do not bode well for Christine's recovery. Lie down, my dear." Watching him carefully, Christine did so, as she saw him take the oil-coated tarpaulin he had also stolen from the sundry store and fasten it to the sides of the buggy.

And then he was searching, finding two flat rocks of approximately the same shape and size, and he was lifting the left back corner of the buggy—and really, at this point, she shouldn't have been surprised at his show of strength, but good Lord! the man was strong!— and positioning a flat stone under the wooden wheel. He performed the same treatment for the left front corner of the buggy as well, and Christine realized he had pitched them at a slightly slanted angle on one side.

Then he secured the other side of the tarpaulin over the top of the buggy with rope, and she smiled to see that he had quite effectively made a slanted roof over their little nest in case it did rain.

She thought back to what Raoul would have done had he been in this situation, and narrowing her eyes in thought, she bit her lip.

Well, Raoul never _would_ have been in this situation to begin with…hired men chasing them… a contract out for Erik's death and _hers_ by association.

No.

She honestly couldn't picture Raoul here at all, but then again, she couldn't quite picture him in Italy. At least, not the Italy she'd come to know through her own meandering experience.

She shoved and positioned the horses' feedbag for a makeshift pillow as she gathered together blankets for their bed; to compare Erik to Raoul would be a great disservice to both men, for they were as different as well… night and day.

And Christine was quickly learning that there was a lot to be said for the night…

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"Erik, I'm cold."

The rain had brought with it a chilling wind, and Erik's tarpaulin-tied roof did little to protect them from it within the cold confines of the drafty buggy. Christine was laying buggy center, surrounded in layer upon layer of blanket and cloth, and _STILL_ she was freezing.

"Christine, Erik's bundled you in every blanket and spare bit of dry cloth he could find." he assured.

And he had; even going so far as to give her the ready-wear shirt off his back and choosing to go without for himself.

She truly hated to complain, but…"It's not warm enough, Erik." she shivered.

"Christine, we've been over this. Erik is not going to share the blankets with Christine and that's final!"

_Why?! _She didn't understand his reasoning.

When she asked, he wouldn't answer her, and he would not even come anywhere near where she lay in the center of the buggy, choosing instead to stay huddled as he was to the drafty side of the where tarpaulin _only_ _just_ managed to reach enough to stop the rain from creeping in.

She reached for him—

"Christine! Stop that at once!"

"_Waaarm-th-th_." She hugged the purloined hand she had stolen close to her chest; savoring its heat and gathering it close to her core to better absorb its warmth.

"_Christine_." he growled.

"Erik, have a heart! It's cold!"

"And Erik is—" he tried to take back his hand, but with a feral growl, Christine bit him.

"_**CHRISTINE**_!"

"What?!" she cried, "I'm turning into a human icicle over here, and you are refusing to share your warmth. Now, _mon_ _Ange_, this once and perhaps future Diva commands you to get under the blankets and service her properly!"

She heard a strangled, choking sound come from him.

And she thought she heard him mumbling, only she wasn't quite certain, but the words sounded like: 'God in Heaven, she knows not of what she asks', and Christine could actually feel him begin to rock slightly back and forth in his huddled place next to the drafty section of tarpaulin.

Relinquishing the hand she held, she took full advantage of his distraction to huddle in closer to him and further hem him in.

Slowly… but so slowly, she eeked her way across the cold wooden expanse that separated them, a sea of blankets moving steadily closer to her prey. And luckily for her, he was on the downward-facing slope, so she had gravity on her side.

Her frozen hands touched the warm expanse of his bare back, and he stopped rocking immediately, instantly realizing his mistake.

She agreed. He never should have turned his back on her.

But he was so still.

Eerily so. And she couldn't even feel him breathe.

And yet… she creeped closer, continuing to move with the blankets and piles of cloth until he was under them with her, sharing them. Only the single cotton layer of her ready-wear gingham dress separated them for she was not even wearing her corset, chemise, or pantaloons. They were all layered around her, adding their precious weight to the insulating layer of blankets. And she moved until she had her cold nose pressed to the bare skin of his back, and she was glorying in his warmth.

And how he could be that incredibly warm in such a cold environ, she hadn't a clue, but she thanked providence for it as she continued to move until one arm was fully draped around his torso, the other slowly working itself underneath him until she could hug him close to her.

And together, they lay as two spoons…

Well, one spoon, and one misshapen, fetal lump that had ceased its rocking, and she was pretty sure had ceased to breathe as well.

She breathed across his back, and his skin rippled with gooseflesh. She breathed in and inhaled the scent of him, relaxing for the first time since the rain began. She nuzzled closer to him, absorbing his heat, his scent, her cold hands finding new pockets of warmth. The crease at his hips where his stomach indented and his trousers began was a veritable treasure-trove! And her hands dove in, her cold nose now burrowing in the crook of his neck.

Again, she felt gooseflesh, but this time, it was everywhere.

Was she making him cold? Of course she was! She was half-frozen herself!

"Erik…?" she asked uncertain, wishing he would talk to her, answer her.

She waited….still no response.

"Erik, am I making you cold? Because I'll stop touching you if you want me—"

In a blink, she was on her back, and Erik was above her.

She gulped, seeing nothing but the reflective yellow of his eyes in the darkness as they steadily watched her, and she could feel his warm breath christen her cheeks.

He whispered, "That's just the problem, mademoiselle… " His hands were trembling now where they held her at her shoulders, and she began to grow frightened by this newest change in him. "Erik wants you… _too much_!"

She gulped again, biting her lip.

"Yes. And now Erik's little innocent sees." His words were soft, and she could hear the slight smile in his Voice. She felt one of his fingers caress her abused lip until she set it free. His other hand moved to her hair, stroking tenderly.

Through the darkness, he murmured, "Erik has waited patiently, my dear. He has watched you—watched you for years! Watched you mature from a child to the beautiful and vibrant young woman you are. And he has always known he could do nothing but watch. He could never dream of putting a hand on such a beautiful Angel sent from heaven." His hand moved to caress her face; it was shaking.

And his eyes, his eyes were burning in their intensity as they held hers.

He moved closer until she could literally taste the words on his lips, "But what happens when that Angel—that perfect, innocent girl— puts her hands on _him_? What happens when she _insists_ on it?" He lowered himself, and Christine gasped as she felt the weight of his nearly unclothed body press down fully covering hers.

She clutched at his sides, drawing him nearer, pushing him away… she didn't know.

But she did know that there was an uncomfortable hardness pressing down on her nethers… and, in point of fact, everywhere her body encountered his was hard. She had never before felt him without layers of clothing separating them, for usually, he was always so fastidiously buttoned up, so very covered. They both were. But the only clothing separating them now was her thin cotton dress and his trousers.

And the man had to be all angles, muscle, and bone!

He nuzzled her ear, and she closed her eyes, lost to the sensation of his body covering hers completely. It was like the kiss against the tree, except so much more intense, for she could feel his body pressing intimately into hers, his angles and hardness molding themselves into the soft dips and curves of her own feminine form, making her feel so warm and cherished, so small and female… and she realized that this must be what it was to be claimed.

Feeling the urge to do so, she wriggled and moved beneath him, and he moaned softly in her ear causing her to shiver and wriggle more.

Quickly, he pulled away from her, burying his head in the span between her ear and the wooden floor as he drew jagged, deep breaths of the cold night air.

It was a long moment later when she heard him whisper, "Erik is asking Christine—he is begging. Please, _please_ do not push him past the bounds of his endurance." His hand was still trembling where it gripped her shoulder, and she gulped as he continued, "Erik may not have the strength necessary to—to stop Christine from losing her choices. And _that_ is something Erik really could not endure!"

And then he was gone, moving away from her, huddling back against the drafty side of the buggy, taking his precious warmth with him, and she was once more alone under the blankets.

Alone, and neither cold nor sleepy.

And she had much to think on before the coming of the dawn.

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_**A/N:**_ It's Sunday! Woo hoo! That was the longest week of my life, dear reader! How about you?

Well, well, well. It looks like things are starting to heat up for our intrepid ingénue and her masked man. Oh, but our Christine can be so clueless sometimes can she not, driving our poor Phantom to distraction with her unassuming guile. Tell me what you think, dear reader, of Christine's innocent charm?

Your authoress awaits your replies with baited breath.

Housekeeping footnote: please note, if you are not signed in, I cannot reply back to your review, and I dearly love replying back! Also, the next posting for this story will be available on Tuesday.

_**DGM**_


	22. Devil May Care

Chapter XXII: Devil May Care

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She watched him sleep.

As the gray light of dawn turned golden, she watched him. All night, she had thought about his words to her. All night, she puzzled over their various meanings.

Clearly, he still thought she would not choose to be with him. She closed her eyes, tightening her jaw at this painful thought.

God, she had hurt him so many times before! And she would probably hurt him, unintentionally, many times more before they were through, but dammit! He loved her…he told her that once upon a time. And he said he wanted her…_too much_ were his words. _He wanted her too much_.

Christine was not fully aware of the goings-on or the mechanics of the marriage bed, but she did know that the few times she and Erik had kissed—the few times he had kissed her _that_ way, were enough to set her blood molten.

And last night, feeling his weight atop her had been a gift—a wonderful gift—and she wanted to repeat it.

She now knew that if he were to ask her to be his living wife again, she would say 'yes' without hesitation.

But he had yet to ask.

In fact, since she had chosen to go her own way to Rome, since she had left him to journey to America alone, he had not spoken one word to her about his love for her.

Oh, it was everyday implied; his every, single action towards her demonstrated in some way his love—his devotion.

And yet…

Had she missed her final chance?

She couldn't let that happen! She now knew that Erik's love for her was a rare and wonderful thing to be savored and to cherish. And she knew that loving him, getting to know _exactly_ who the man behind the mask was would be her greatest achievement in this life.

And so, she resolved to study him as he studied her.

And she vowed that she would make him see; make him believe that she was his completely!

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They had once more resumed their journey on the lonely mountain road, and they had been travelling for almost two hours in complete silence.

It was awkward; it was stilted.

He wouldn't look at her.

Finally, Christine broke, "Erik, I have a few questions about some of the things you said last night."

She felt him stiffen at her side, and reaching for his arm, she held it soothingly.

He tried to pull away, "Erik would prefer not to discu—"

"You said that you had watched me," clinging to his arm, she broke in before he could tell her no, "When I was a child. Erik, how—" she bit her lip, "how long have you felt this way about me?"

Pulling up sharply on the reins, he turned away from her and buried his head. "Mon Dieu! Christine must think Erik a monster!"

"Erik!" She scooted over to him, until she could put her hand on his back; until she could feel him trembling. "Erik, I don't think you're a monster! I just…I want to know…"

He began speaking through his hands, "Erik has watched Christine since she was a child. But he only saw her _as a child_; a very lonely, orphan-child, just like him. And Erik wanted to help that child, that innocent, faith-filled angel, become something extraordinary. For he heard an Angel's voice when he heard that child sing."

Slowly, Christine maneuvered herself so she could be in front of him, perching a bit awkwardly on the wooden slat in the front of the buggy. With gentle insistence, she lowered his hands from his bandaged face.

He looked up at her, his eyes tormented.

"Erik taught that child, tutored her; Erik taught her everything about voice that Erik had learned. And in the process, that child taught Erik the meanings of faith, hope, and innocence." He lifted his hand and caressed her face.

His eyes narrowed, "It wasn't until that child began showing interest in a certain foppish Viscount that Erik realized what a beautiful young woman she had become." He cupped her face in his palm, and Christine nuzzled further into it, loving the feel of his hand holding her. "And Erik panicked. For that child—that lovely young woman belonged to _him_."

Her eyebrows raised, and she pulled slightly away.

He had the good sense to look abashed, "Well, not _his_, Christine, but Erik did have a certain investment in her future."

She smiled crookedly, agreeing only _somewhat_, and gestured for him to continue.

He rubbed the back of his neck, and gestured, "And Erik, well, it had never occurred to him that children grew up. That sounds ridiculous, he knows, my dear. But other than his own terrible childhood, Erik has never been around any children. And so, to suddenly come to the realization that the child he had taught, had nurtured at Sweet Music's Knee was a woman—a beautiful woman full of talent and promise—"

He closed his eyes on a grimace, "—well, Erik believes you can see where his conduct landed both him and Christine. Erik lied to you, he betrayed you, he—"

She stopped him with a finger to his lips. "No more explanation necessary, _Ange_." And leaning forward, she kissed his lips so gently, so softly and sweetly, it was barely a mingling of air and breath.

He sighed.

Leaning in, she placed her forehead against his, and whispered, "On behalf of that little girl, that lonely little orphan the Angel of Music came to visit and befriend, Erik, I want to thank you. You gave that grieving little girl faith, hope, and maintained her innocence. You kept her a child in a world that would have forced her to grow up much too soon. And you gave her the luxury of choice by educating her and the freedom to pursue her choice."

He moaned, and she took full advantage of his open lips to kiss him, for the first time kissing him the way that he kissed her.

He drew a shocked breath and paused.

And then he was kissing her back with a vengeance, pulling her until she was seated on his lap, until his hands were buried in her hair, and her hands were clutching the lapels of his coat, as much for balance as to be near him.

Groaning, he pulled back, meeting her stare.

She gulped.

His eyes were lit with dark fire; he closed them, his jaw tightening as he started to move her away.

She refused to budge, clinging to him like lichen to stone. She cleared her throat, "Now, I have another question—"

"_Christine_." Her name was ground against his clenched teeth, as much a growl as it was a plea.

She smiled and sat back on his knee, "I know, I know. I heard you last night, Erik. You don't want me to push you past the point of your endurance. _But_… I figured I'm already there," she squirmed, and he bent, moaning into her neck, "—and it'd be a shame to move me—especially considering the _nature_ of my next question."

She squirmed until she was facing him, her legs splayed on either side of his lap; her dress riding high.

He closed his eyes on a groan, "Erik's little innocent, are you sure you've never wielded a lash because you would have made an _excellent_ torturess, my dear."

"_Choices_."

His eyes flew open.

She nodded, "Uh-huh, you said you were trying to keep my choices open. What did you mean by that?"

His eyes narrowed as he thought over her question, and she took the opportunity to remove his hat. Her hands rose to his bandaged face, and she began to deftly pry loose the seams; he didn't seem to notice.

He spoke very deliberately, "When Erik restores Christine to Rome, she will be in much the same position as she was before."

She snorted, "Lord, I hope not."

He waved her away distractedly, "When Christine returns, she will no longer need Erik's assistance for Erik is going to speak to Signore Davide _personally_ to see that she's established at the _Aligheri_ Opera house in Rome."

"Hmm, yes. That is only _if_ Christine regains the power of her voice… and what's this about no longer need your assist…?" her words trailed away as it dawned on her where exactly he was going with this. Moving closer on his lap, she asked sweetly, "And if Christine doesn't _want_ to sing at the _Alighieri_ Opera house in Rome?" as she began to deftly unwind the bandages covering his face.

He looked at her as if she was daft. "Of course Christine will want to sing there; Erik designed the layout specifically with her vocal acoustics in mind."

"Ah. Erik did, did he?" She almost laughed at how completely oblivious he was being. His hands were clutching her waist, and he began doing a slow, gentle roll with his hips back and forth. She didn't think he was even aware he was doing so.

Narrowing her eyes, she whispered, "And where will Erik be during all of this?"

"Erik must deal with Lazarro and his men in addition to one or two small details concerning Christine. And then Erik will return to America."

"Ah, Erik will, will he?" she met his stare, her eyes showing him exactly what his unconscious rocking was doing to her.

He looked down, and his mouth opened in shock.

He stopped rocking, his hands leaving her waist as if she scalded him.

"Oh, _Christine_!" he gasped.

She felt him tense, just noticing that his bandages were lying in her lap. And she was prepared for it, prepared for his reaction, and she quickly grabbed his hands before they could fly to cover his face.

His eyes shut tight as he whispered, "What are you doing, what have you done?!"

"Erik, look at me." She kissed first one hand and then the other and replaced them at her waist. She began the slow rocking motion that he had started, that had been giving her such a feeling of delight. Finally, one of his eyes opened and then both, and he was looking at her, his soul as bared before her as his face.

She leaned close and kissed him on his lips, and placed her forehead on his now bared one.

She grew still, ceasing her gentle rocking-motion.

"Christine is trying to tell her Erik that a place without Erik in it is no place Christine wants to be. At least, that's what I think I'm trying to say…Lord, how do you talk like that? It's exhausting!" She shook her head. "At any rate, I _want_ to be with you, Erik! I _choose_ to be with you. In whatever respect _you_ choose, but personally, I would like more of this—" and she gestured between them, "—and more of the kissing, and more of your weight on top of me and mff—"

His lunging for her lips prevented anything else she had to say, but speech was definitely overrated anyway, especially considering the fact he was making her toes curl with another of his drugged kisses.

Her hands took full advantage of this and began an exploratory mission. Yet something hard under her seat on his lap was making it difficult to find a comfortable spot, and so she reached down to move the thing.

Right as her hands closed around it, Erik gasped.

"Christine!"

"Wha—_oh_! It's a part of you!"

He looked dumbfounded for all of two seconds, and then he was smiling that roguish smile; a smile that managed to take her breath away.

He took her hand ,and kissing it, moved it away from him. "Yes, little innocent. That is a part of Erik; a very important part. And one of which Christine is not going to learn about on the bench of a horse-drawn buggy out in the open for God and the sundry to witness." He looked around disgusted, beginning to once more wind the gauzed wrappings tightly around his face.

Christine looked around as well; and wriggling on his lap, she stage-whispered persuasively, "Erik there's no one around except us and the birds."

He finished tucking in the edges of cloth and setting her gently away from him, reached and grabbed his hat. "Hmm, yes. Us, the birds, and Christine's _God_. And Erik would prefer for Christine to remain unsullied in the eyes of her God until Erik can once more place his ring on her finger."

"Unsullied? As if anything we do together could possibly be considered unclean, _Ange_."

He took her left hand and kissed her ring finger. "A promise, Erik's little innocent. Erik promises that when Christine finally has Erik's ring on her finger, it will be pure and right. That Christine will come to Erik's bed untainted."

"Purity, rightness, talk of taint; I dislike this talk, Erik. Anything we do with one another cannot be wrong in the eyes of _my_ God."

His eyes smiled at her, just as his hands patted hers consolingly, "Nevertheless, we shall wait, my dear."

She huffed in disappointment.

And on they rolled.

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_**A/N:**_ The next update will be this Sunday, dear reader. Do let this authoress know what you think, won't you?

_**DGM**_


	23. Devil Can Quote Scripture for His Own

Chapter XXIII: Devil Can Quote Scripture for His Own Purpose

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"Really, Erik. I'm surprised they still had my trunk in storage. Good Grief! It's been almost six months since I arrived in Rome." Christine began going through the clothes within her trunk, admiring them with a new appreciation. It wasn't until she had been away from such fine things, until she had to make do with rags and a dress fit only for _a lady of the evening_, that she realized how much she valued Erik's taste and choice in dressing her.

He really did have such exquisite taste!

"With a customer such as you, my dear, they would have retained the trunk indefinitely until you came to claim it. Such was the nature of Erik's ticket he gave you." She smiled up at him through the doorway of their adjoining rooms. She had wanted one room—single—but he had insisted on two citing the need for her privacy. When she had helpfully pointed out that it was unsafe for her to be alone without her _Ange_ there to protect her, he hesitantly agreed to the adjoining of a two room suite.

And so there they were installed in one of the nicest hotels in all of Rome with only a bathing room to separate them.

And Christine had just drawn a bath _and_ ordered room service.

"Tell me, my dear, were you able to find your _key_?"

Looking into a pocketed compartment, she pulled it free, and showed it to him, all the while taking down the pins holding her hair.

It tumbled down in a mass at her back, and she heard a gasp.

"_Christine_."

She looked up.

His expression had her pausing mid-release of a pearl button on her lapel. His eyes were drinking her in, and his expression caused her pulse to thrum.

He backed away. "Er—Erik should go, Christine." his tone insisted otherwise. "K—keep that key on you _at all times_. The daroga and Erik will be back as soon as they are able."

"The daroga? Monsieur Khan is here already?"

His eyes stared transfixed at the partially undone buttons at her blouse. "He only just arrived." he murmured absently.

Right then, there was a knock on her door. "Just a minute." she called out in Italian. She turned back to him. "Well, are you at least going to kiss me goodbye, then?"

He looked surprised—surprised that she would ask. "If Christine so wishes." he hesitated.

She held up her chin, smiling, "Christine does."

And walking silently to her, he kissed her with a gentle reverence that left her breathless. And when he began to pull away, she shook her head.

She mumbled against his lips, "No, _Ange_. _That_ wasn't the kind of kiss I was asking for." And lifting up on tiptoe, she put her arms around his neck, and proceeded to show him exactly what she was asking.

She moaned as he took possession of her mouth, and then his hand was drifting to the silk-covered pearl buttons at her lapel, undoing one right after the other. And then his hand was slipping into the opening he had created, and she felt him palm her breast, caressing her still partially-clothed nipple with his thumb, and she gasped, pushing hard against him, wanting more, want—

Another knock on the door had him pulling away from her on a gasp, his eyes wide.

Unabashed, she looked up at him and grinned.

He rested his gauze-wrapped forehead against her own, breathing deeply. "Ah, Erik's little temptress, You will be the death of him yet. Erik will come for you soon, mademoiselle." In his words, she heard a darker promise. "Be prepared."

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"I see you were able to follow the instructions I left you; I do hope no one saw you and mademoiselle enter through the servants' quarters."

Behind the alley of the hotel where he and the daroga had chosen to meet, Erik watched as the Persian began rifling through the contents of the carpeted bag he carried.

He continued, "I have not seen any of Lazarro's men since I arrived. And none followed me from the villa; so you say there were seven of them?"

The Persian handed Erik the black mask, and turning his back to him, Erik quickly removed the wrappings from his face and donned it. Placing his wide-brimmed hat low on his brow, he once more embodied the persona of the _Angel of Death_. "hmm, yes. Seven. Erik dispatched all but one so that he might bring the message _Death is coming_."

"It would be foolishness for you to tr—"

"Quiet, Nadir! You know nothing of it. Those men were hunting Christine! _Hunting her_! Erik will mercilessly slay every last one of them."

The Persian shook his head sadly. "There are too many."

He grit his jaw, "Then Erik will cut off the head of the snake; now, about the other matter…"

The Persian sighed, "Upon arrival, I made inquiries of the staff at the _Alighieri_ and found the place that monster was holding her; a restaurant called _The Caged Bird_ two streets west of the _Alighieri_. I've been watching them since I've arrived. Erik, the place is a cesspit, but it, purportedly, did not used to be so."

He smirked cruelly, "hmm, no. Erik imagines not. Now, if you'll excuse me, daroga, there is business to attend."

The daroga clutched at his sleeve. "Do not think you are going there without me."

Erik shrugged his restraining arm away as he muttered, "Go, stay. It will make no difference in the end. _No difference_." His Voice held a certainty that was as sure as Death itself.

He didn't pause to wait, just kept moving, making his way in the shadows, steadily and stealthily closer to the restaurant and to the man and his mother that had treated his Christine so abominably.

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"Please, Spasso, please. Let us get rid of this box _demone_ now before it kills you!"

Erik watched impassively from his position outside the kitchen window as an ill-kempt man sat hovering over Christine's mirror box while his mother hovered over him. He had been handsome once, Erik supposed, classically so in the way of Italians.

And perhaps this was why his Christine had been so taken with him…beauty did draw beauty after all. But the mirror box had worked its ravaging charm, and the man's once-pleasing appearance now reflected self-abuse and neglect.

"Not now, _madre cagna_," the man swatted her hand away, "I've almost _got_ it!" He hissed as another shard of mirror embedded itself into his finger. Erik grinned. The man's fingers were riddled with cuts and shards of glass, some healing, many not.

His hands were sliced to ribbons.

The mother cried, "Spasso! Spasso! Let me attend you! Let me help you! We must be free of that thing for it is killing you."

She reached to take it away, and the man backhanded her across her face, embedding one or two of the glass shards there.

She screamed.

He didn't notice, his attention once more focused on the box.

"Spasso!" His mother wept, "Spasso, please! Look at yourself, your mother is begging of you. Look at yourself, look at us! For weeks! Weeks and weeks you have not let go of that box. Weeks, Spasso! It is killing you, this thing. You have not eaten, you hardly sleep. And when you do it is to dream about the box. You do not even bother to use the toilette anymore, Spasso!" The woman sobbed.

"Our ristoranti, our once shining jewel is in shambles because of this _thing_—" she pointed a trembling, gnarled finger toward the box "–because of your obsession with it. Let the box go, my son. Yes? Give the box to your mother, and she will dispose of it, and never will you think of it again."

Erik raised an eyebrow as the shrunken woman braved her son yet again to take the box from him.

He could not have stopped what happened next if he'd tried—which he didn't.

The old woman put her hands on the box. Yet, with a forceful shove, the man heaved the box until it clipped her on her head, crushing in its impact on her frail face and nose.

She stumbled back, eyes wide in disbelief, clutching her shattered face that was pouring blood.

"You have angered me for the last time, _madre cagna_; the last time!" the man bellowed.

And rising from the table, the man proceeded to bludgeon his own mother to death with Christine's mirror box.

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The daroga arrived moments later, breathless. "Erik, you move too fast for an old man like me to follow. Wha—what's transpiring in there?"

Erik ignored both the daroga and his questions, watching impassively as the man—the man that had just killed his own mother—resumed his seat at the kitchen table once more still trying to find a way to open the now gore-covered mirror box.

"Aiiyee! What the hell has happened to her? _By Allah!_ What's happened?!"

"_Maintain a watchful silence, Nadir, and you may stay to observe. Do not and_…" Erik's threat trailed away to silence.

The daroga said not another word as he and Erik stood vigil at the kitchen window, watching the ill-kempt matricidal murderer work around the hair and bloodied brain matter, tossing bits of gore heedlessly aside in his quest to _open the_ _box_. Another attempt to pry, and another shard of glass for his pains.

It was then, at this perfect moment that Erik chose to make his presence known.

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He casually sat at the table and steepled his gloved hands in front of him.

The _Angel of Death_ studying the man who was obsessing over the box.

The _Angel of Death_ was not impressed.

Using the peculiar power of his Voice, the _Angel_ spoke, "The box you have there was designed with a very specific young woman in mind." His words pierced through the man's concentration, momentarily clearing the fog of madness from his mind.

The ill-kempt man looked up, and his eyes widened, only just taking notice of the _Angel of Death_ sitting before him at his kitchen table.

The _Angel_ gestured, "The mirror box has several built-in security measures meant only for those foolish enough that dare try taking what is not theirs to have. You see, I, _the Angel of Death_," and he paused to smile cruelly, "—tailored it _specifically_ for her. For _her_ hearing."

The _Angel_ effortlessly slid the box away from the man's un-protesting, bloodied fingertips. And pulling a key from his pocket, he opened a compartment on the box, showing the man the number of gears and cogs inside. "You see this part just here, _sirrah_?"

The man nodded dumbly, his eyes never once leaving the _Angel of Deat_h, specifically his black mask.

The _Angel_ smiled, "Yes, this part here is a mechanism that vibrates at an ultra-sonic high pitch frequency. I, the _Angel of Death_, do not expect you to know or understand what that is, but— and you'll have to trust me on this— to the _right_ listener—say, for instance, the owner of this box— the tone has a soothing, tranquil and calming influence.

"However, to the wrong listener, it can cause madness… _unadulterated madness_." The _Angel_ let his words hang in the air. With the press of a button, the gears ceased their turn, and the man blinked dumbly up at him, his eyes becoming more lucid with each passing second the sound ceased to play.

The _Angel of Death_ continued on undeterred, "You see, _sirrah_, most people are revolted by the sound; they want to pass the box along as quickly as possible for it is uncomfortable for them to hear, to touch— as you have seen when you have tried to pry it open." He looked pointedly down at the man's bloodied and dripping fingers, and then met the man's eyes once more and smiled.

"But you, my greedy friend, have made it your mission, your mission to uncover just what _exactly_ is in the box." The _Angel_ paused and gestured about the kitchen with his gloved hands, "Why, you've worked so hard and done so much to get to this point, _sirrah_. I, the _Angel of Death_, congratulate you."

The man looked around, as if for the first time seeing what his obsession with the box had done to his home, what it had done for his business, _and_ what his madness had done to his mother.

The man gasped and paled, crossing himself, and imploring his god, begging for forgiveness.

The _Angel of Death_ laughed outright, the sound ringing evil off the walls piercing the man where he sat, "_**God? Do you really think God has a place here? I, the Angel of Death, assure you he does not**_."

And with a swipe, he had the man by the throat, garroting him with the Punjab lasso. The man's eyes bulged out of his skull as he fell to his knees before the _Angel's_ still seated form.

"_**Your first mistake, sirrah, was in not realizing that everything has its price." **_The Angel of Death looked amused, _**"Ironic, wouldn't you say, considering the lessons you bestowed her.**_**"** His eyes glittered. "_**And to me, the Angel of Death, the owner of that box is more precious than rubies, and nothing you desire can compare with her."***_

The Angel pulled the lasso even tighter, gritting, _**"Do you remember who that box was meant for?**_"

The man nodded frantically, clutching vainly at his throat.

"_**And do you recall exactly how you treated her, exactly how you exploited her before leaving her to rot and die in a prison cell?"**_

The man nodded weakly, his face turning purple then black; his tongue swelling in his mouth.

"_**Good. And since everything has its price, sirrah, I, The Angel of Death think it is only fitting the same treatment be bestowed on you in kind."**_

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"Daroga, summon the authorities, there is a murder to report."

Erik's hands shook visibly from the restraint of _not_ killing him, and the man's eyes widened in surprise as Erik released his hold.

"Oh, yes. Death by _my_ hand is too good for you by half, _sirrah_. Too quick, you see? But fear not. Death shall be coming and soon!" his Voice was gleeful. "Oh yes, she will. If not by the end of the noose then by a firing squad; for in Italy, _killing one's own mother_ is a crime punishable… by… _Death_."

Crying now, the man stumbled, gaining his feet, trying to flee like the coward he was.

Erik let him… allowing the man two steps before administering a swift kick to the base of his spine that left him incapacitated awaiting the police.

The daroga returned but a moment later, again short of breath. "They are here."

Erik nodded, and taking the mirror box, he emptied it of its valuable contents and disabled permanently the ultra-sonic device and the locking mechanism so that the box never could again be opened.

Removing his soiled gloves and throwing them into the kitchen fire, he murmured, "You know what to do."

The daroga nodded, and Erik once more made his way to the alley at the back of the restaurant, becoming one with the shadows there.

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"B-but it was the _Angel of Death_, I tell you! He visited me! He had on a black mask—as black as death, and his Voice, it whispered such vile things, such hateful things! Please! I didn't mean to do it! I didn't mean t—No, God! Please, Noo—!"

"_**Quiet**_**!**" One of the policemen backhanded the cuffed man and sent him sprawling to the dirt where another kicked him hard in the ribs until he ceased to move.

"Can you believe this _merda_?" the first officer spat.

The other shook his head. "The things people try. Hey, Giuseppe, did you grab the murder weapon? That box-thing?"

"Yeah, it's in the crate there." The other, a local detective, gestured absently and returned to his conversation. "Now Signore Khan, tell us again what happened?"

Erik watched from his position in the shadows as the vile bit of waste was carted away while Nadir gave the police their report.

Using the power of his Voice, he made sure that the loathsome trash noticed him one last time—

"There he is, I tell you! There he is, it's the _Angel of Death_! You have to believe! You have to belie—"

"**I said** _**BE QUIET**_**!**" The police officer hit the man in face with the butt of his pistol, and the man's once-handsome nose sprayed blood as he collapsed again in the dirt.

Smiling viciously, Erik blended back into the shadows, becoming part of them once more.

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_**A/N:**_ And justice—it is served.

*Erik did actually quote the Bible when talking to that murderous basta—umm, that gentleman that so callously killed his mother. The quote is Proverbs 3:15.

Major item of business the first: This authoress is proud to announce** FantomPhan33** as her official beta for _Time and Again_! **FP33** has been, and continues to be, the Fantom Fairy God Beta that works tirelessly behind the scenes to refine this authoress' thoughts and present a more polished, finished version of her story to you, dear reader; in addition to helping to show this fledgling authoress the fan fiction ropes.

**FP33**, I salute you.

Major item of business the second: The authoress has been in contact with a very talented artist from deviantART .com. His screen name is** VassagoX66 **and his '**Study of the Opera Ghost'** is _exactly_ what I have in mind when I write Erik for _Time and Again_. **VassagoX66** will be drawing select scenes from the novel, and one of them is the _very_ scene you just read, dear reader!

Look for a link on my profile page to his work if I have piqued your interest, or just look up '**VassagoX66 **'**Study of the Opera Ghost' **in your web browser. All roads lead to Ro—errm…** VassagoX66** and his I cannot wait until he gets some of the sketches complete so that I can begin posting them along with my chapters!

Until Wednesday, dear reader,

_**DGM**_


	24. Go to the Devil

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Chapter XXIV: Go to the Devil

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Christine had drawn her bath, and there she sat soaking and savoring every last bit of warmth there was to be had, inhaling the smell of the jasmine-spiced bath oil, feeling the silken texture of thousands of tiny bubbles gliding and fizzing along her skin.

For many minutes, she lost herself, remembering Erik as she'd gotten to know him in the last few weeks; his compassion in her illness, his devotion to her well-being, his protectiveness. She looked at the key—the key that she had found in her mirror box. The key that had led her to the underground chamber…and to him, and another thought struck her…

The key, _her key_, had been packed away with the ring he had given her to wear—_his_ ring.

She gasped, lowering herself down in the cooling water for one final rinse, a brilliant plan beginning to form in her mind.

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She was nervous…

Alright, she was more than terrified! She didn't know what she was doing…well, she had an idea. An idea that involved her, Erik, and a bed… but there her imagination left her to flounder.

She imagined there would be lots more kissing, and perhaps he would touch her breasts once more, and maybe, maybe he would let her explore that very interesting part of his anatomy that poked her seat when she sat in his lap on the buggy… but what then?

She was not Catholic, even though Madam Giry had tried to get her to convert.

She had chosen to stay true to the religion of her parents. A blend of Norse-pagan and Lutheran beliefs, it had taught her that the love between a man and a woman was pure and right, and that the bond that she and her husband shared would be a sacred, loving thing.

Chastity, although Madam had preached stringently about it, had never bothered Christine. The concept of purity was a preposterous one. For she believed that in order to remain pure and innocent, one must only cultivate a heart of pure intentions and a mind innocent of wicked thoughts.

Purity wasn't lost when love was created, and if the heart and mind were pure and innocent, then the body surely must be as well.

And so Erik's admonishments against them sharing the same blanket, or bed, or whatever the euphemism it was that people called the loving act between a man and a woman, were all for naught.

And there she stood—Christine Daae—clutching Erik's ring in one hand, and the ties of her rose-tinted peignoir in another, waiting for him to come back to her.

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Erik was not a religious man.

But he was sent to his knees by the sight that greeted him upon his return.

Upon entering his room and closing the door, he realized their adjoining doors which were connected via a bathing room were still open. This was a curiosity, for it was very late, and he was sure his Christine would be sleeping by now, adrift on her innocent sea of dreams.

He took a step towards the door, and that was when his Christine revealed herself, bared but for a few scraps of silk and lace.

The unexpected sight brought him to his knees.

Slowly, she glided over to him, the silk of her robe shushing on the marbled floor. And she was clutching his ring—the ring he had given her so long ago— there in her trembling hand.

He could only stare, open-mouthed, not daring to imagine, not daring to beli—

"I told you I would have the last laugh, Erik dear." She smiled tremulously, and reaching down, caressed his masked face.

His eyes widened in fear, frightened at her words and actions at such a time as this.

Until she explained, "You remember you bested me over and over again that first night in the buggy when I was wrapped in the blanket?" He nodded hesitantly, remembering her challenging words that she _would, indeed, have the last laugh_. "And then later, you told me that whenever you could put _your_ ring on my finger, that it would be pure and right. That when I came to your bed, I would come untainted, unsullied before the eyes of my God."

His eyes widened, seeing the correlation even before his heart began to pound, resounding timpani in his ears. _A technicality._ His little innocent had foxed him in, and neatly, on a technicality!

He sat there in stunned disbelief.

Her hand still at his mask, and she whispered solemnly, "Well, Erik. I have your ring, and I would really like it if you placed it on my finger."

She continued, "If you want vows and promises; I've made them." She smiled, and he realized her eyes were brimming with tears. "I—I've made mine, Erik. I have chosen to be your _living wife_, your partner, and your friend from now until the day I breathe my last."

She bit her lip, and shook her head, "But I don't want to wait another day. I don't want to wait another moment to be with you, _Ange_; to be somehow a part of you." She lifted her head, and smiled regally, "And so, it comes down to this—" she held up the ring before his eyes and smiled a smile that held all the hope and promise of the world, "Are you a man of your word, Erik? Or not?"

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Christine waited with baited breath, not knowing what he would choose, her thoughts fleeting. He could just as easily send her back to her room, heart in hand—_or— _or he could accept her impromptu proposal.

She watched him steadily, the lamplight gleaming off the shiny surface of the black mask, throwing the peculiar reflective quality of his eyes into strange relief, and she grinned secretly to herself.

A singular tableau did they make:

For although the gentleman was kneeling, it was the lady offering the proposal and the ring. It seemed they were doomed to a life of unconventionality, and Christine wouldn't have it any other way.

His actions upon seeing her, falling to his knees as he had done, had surprised her. For never did she think she could rend such a strong and dangerous man to his knees with only bits of silk and lace.

He didn't say a single word, and she didn't move in her position before him; the moment rife with tension.

But slowly, Erik enclosed her hand in his, his own less than steady, as he carefully took the ring from her palm.

"With this ring, Christine is Erik's, yes?"

"Yes." she nodded, nearly speechless, "Oh, yes." she choked, her eyes over-flowing. She watched blearily as he held the simple gold band up to the light.

"And Erik is to be Christine's from now until Erik breathes his last, yes?" His Voice held such wonder, such hope! And then he was looking at her for affirmation, and she could only nod, too overcome to speak.

"Then yes, _Madam_, Erik is a man of his word."

And with these words, he slipped the ring on the third finger of her left hand. And slowly gaining his feet, he led her to his bed.

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At the foot of it, they paused, and kneeling in front of her, he held her hands. "Christine, my dear—"

She stopped him with a finger to his lips, shaking her head. No more words; the time for them was past.

The corner of his mouth quirked, his eyes filled with a gentle playfulness. Lifting her slightly, he laid her down on his downturned bed.

He removed his hat and overcoat; his motions never hurried or inexact. And she watched him, watched him in the low lamplight, just as he most assuredly watched her. He then slipped free of his shoes, stockings, buckles. And then he was unhurriedly removing his coat and undoing the buttons at his cuffs, vest, and linen shirt; his every action slow and deliberate as he watched her.

And then, suddenly, his upper-half was bared for her to see.

Still, his eyes watched her, looking for some sign, she supposed, that she regretted her choice, regretted being there with him. What she regretted was the speed with which he was undressing, and she held out her arms, entreating him to hurry, for she was getting cold in his bed all alone.

His eyes widened in pleasure at her show of eagerness. The last item of clothing to be removed was his trouser pants, but Christine shook her head, and for a moment, he was baffled.

She pointed to his face, specifically to the mask he still wore and gestured that she wanted him to remove it.

She bit her lip, not knowing if he would or not. Was what she asked too much? To have him bared completely before her in such a manner?

But then he was reaching down and caressing her injured lip with the pad of his thumb until she released it. And then he replaced his thumb with his lips, gently sucking and soothing the abused flesh. And then he was gathering her hands at the back of his head where the leather straps held the mask secure.

And meeting her eyes once more, he bowed his head in permission for her to remove his mask.

Christine's heart was in her throat; that was the only explanation for this feeling of fullness, this outpouring of love for the man almost bared fully before her. She gently pried the mask away from his face, and placing the delicate thing with care on the night table beside the bed, and turning, she once more met his stare.

His upper half was bared fully before her now, and she smiled, once again entreated him to join her on the bed. But his eyes were taunting, slowly lighting with banked fire as he gestured once more to the trouser pants he had yet to remove.

She gulped.

Watching her unblinking, he did so, and Christine encountered for the first time exactly how it was the male portion of the human anatomy differed from the female.

He allowed her to look her fill of him, standing tall and somewhat regal in the flickering light as he was. She blushed, all of a sudden self conscious and unsure of just what she had asked to do with this man. But she refused to look away from him, refused to look away from the gift he was granting her at viewing his body by lamplight.

And she refused to look at the imperfections, the scars and marks, the dimples and darts; a study of those, and the history behind them, she was certain, would come in time.

For now, she drank him in with her eyes, all of him, from that heavy, foreign part that jutted so proudly away from him, to his erect posture and bearing, to, even, the ever-more familiar misshapen form of his skull.

Her eyes drank him in, and once more, she reached for him.

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_**A/N:**_ Your authoress has posted this chapter extra early due to being admitted into the hospital because of surgical complications dealing with a surgery she had almost two years ago.

SO...back again she goes under the knife! :D

Please keep me in your thoughts and prayers, and I will post again as soon as I am able! Probably sometime next week.

Your devoted authoress,

_**DGM**_


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